The evening sky is book review urban

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The evening sky is stained with gray cloud, and he has a firm grip on urban your head. You touch a scar running down the side of his left thigh. He tells you, hurriedly, that he was knifed by a burglar in his divided Jerusalem. He will never go urban back, he urban says. You had run the garbage disposal while he complained about his wife’s medical bills still dropping in the mail. The man has retained a lawyer who is going to screw Kaiser Permanente. And you think about big corporations and white men in blue shirts carrying on only what dead white men in blue shirts have done before them. Now you are being mouth-fucked by this man, who is somebody’s grandfather, who calls you cinnamon-skin. At this moment his white cock in your brown mouth seems like some textbook chapter on racial and generational integration. A single bark, like a flying saucer levitating, escapes from the valley and the man’s dog looks up, but only for a moment.
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