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And tomorrow, God help us – the phone won’t ring in a brothel or castle, and not in a single Gulf emirate, except to offer a new prescription for my extermination. But . . . just as the mallow tells us, and as the borders know, I won’t die! I will not die! I’ll linger on – a piece of shrapnel the size of a penknife lodged in the neck; I’ll remain – a blood stain the size of a cloud on the shirt of this world!



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