For the first time in our current ward and precinct,
spatch and I did not have to prove our identities before voting tonight. The difference was magical: instead of Kafkaesque obstruction which our papers could only provisionally resolve, we were presented with ballots, which we cast and were out of there in five minutes flat. We had earlier in the evening enjoyed dinner from Guru the Caterer, which only took us seventeen months of walking past on a regular basis to try rather than just inhale like a beggar in a folktale—admittedly for almost half that time I was medically prohibited takeout. I rejoice in a local source of goat curry, especially on nights when the combo includes the option of palak paneer and roti and rice and pickle into the bargain, which is most of a thali without the plate. I had never actually seen bread pakora in a restaurant before and probably would try it. I am still sufficiently new to eating from restaurants again that it feels like a treat each time.
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- 1: Go right on over to meet your doom
- 2: I'm drinking heartbreak motor oil and Bombay gin
- 3: Give me a cipher, give me a lover, set me free
- 4: This new one is derived, he tells me, from page 225 of the London telephone directory
- 5: It's not what I was made to do, but believe me, I still care
- 6: Re-reading our texts from the strawberry days
- 7: Am I one of those human beings?
- 8: Just took time to say, I'll drop you a line
- 9: I'm yours in the day and the dead of night
- 10: And four hours north of Portland, the radio flips on
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- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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