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“I was having coffee with my subconscious. He was a peculiar looking man. Small, with a waxed mustache and crossed legs.
She was born blind, a hunchback, a dwarf who could barely walk. Her aristocratic parents had hoped for. . .
You’re supposed to thank the fumes. To be grateful / for the toxic patch on the rail track.
On bids to reform blood donation policy for men who have sex with men.
Canada’s lucrative animation industry is hollowing out an art form
Police foundations exemplify the logic of racial capitalism.