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All souls manifesto

Long after, return to bindings of selfhood as otherized manifestations of love and playing thief. I lost to her gimmicking morphed images. Truth made me so proud, that I wished all. My zonal inclinations are the non-morbid self seekers from the street. The street ended no more; rather the obsolete street’s findings made me a zealot of newer street canny pupil of her.  She forgave my nitwit like assaults. She played my drum throughout. Being begets its forgetfulness by its own becoming and absolution of homogenised inert “in-itself” selfhood. Self admonishes the stamp breakage. Love’s fulfilment is not deterred by self seeking cunning few.  Many stood beside me, which made me peopled in the arena of goodwill towards her. My pre-history reckons. Life prepares the fast food for meself, yet, it was long wait for her. I gave her the will of my history lessons. Bena stood firmly, so did Jack, Prasit also was good yet, a bit judgingly cunning. Being becomes through its targeted zone and objectal references.  She stood firm beside, so did the whole of small towns, and cities afar. Southern Globality armed with residual success of pornographic film shows. Some Bengali matched the sight.  Me thought of reckoning the elemental. Nature as other of history. Histories accumulation as the slurry mid-weight historiography. History as behaviour naturalized.  Habit as contextual limit. That played no deferral between me and her. I returned to inbetween spaces of hopeful recognition for the selfified writings, of wholesome other as selfhood. Self demarcates the contextual historicality spaced through culture. Beinghood locates self in the spaced being’s location between historicity and cultural plurality.  I de-contextualized the references, from culture to Professorship. Who’s who emerges as admonisher of bad syndicate, made of lies. Globality celebrates the issue. My fast food was considered residual, before  the emergence of her long Beckett play. Waiting is thy spirit. Second nature taught of forgiving the milly joke of certain casuals. Life begets the full term. I passed through the science joke. She likes the breaking syndrome of negative thought. I went through various mappings beside my house. My galleon march past the South Sea coast everyday. I forgave her in Eighties. And her image passed cognition of day dreamer. Certain utopia, hand in hand.  She forgave my clownhood, but loved my inbetween.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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