I should think this through, this new urge I have for writing. It is giving me crazy ideas. Leaving home, driving five minutes, I cross a shabby tent. It has a badly scrawled notice in front, offering remedies for all diseases: HIV, diptheria, venereal disease, syphylis, flu, anemia, impotence, diabetes and some fifty more minor and major afflictions; many cures, one doctor of a sort, no patients. I have seen the man. He is burly, filthy, has a knot on his crown, and looks a Himalayan sage. I thought today morning that I must go in, talk to him and check what gold-mine of writing ideas might emerge from that conversation. I might do it; Sujaya shouldn’t find out.
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