Rivers are like our village roads. Never ending and winding, always giving you a hope that this is it. this ends here. but sheer treachery befalls us. Neither the road ends nor our efforts to find it. only caught within the vortex of inevitability, futile search for finality. Thank god poor reader is not acclimatised with Derrida. Otherwise writer's voluminous observation would have died an untimely death with the thundering noise of deference. poor writer has to be so concerned about the literary hawks.
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