Rushdie catches all the dream demons in me and gives them a whirl. Toys with them, teases them and gets their tongues-a-flapping. Enraged, excited, incensed, they come and whisper dream inducing nothings in my ear, dragging me into their abyss. The withered words they conjure up are entwined with a glimmer of magic, a thread of mysticism. The filth they serve keeps me in a vice-like grip, enchanting me with fresh possibilities thrown in with trashed, much used and hated commonalities. And when the yellow feverish heat of their tales finally fades, I am left in a sticky web, that other nether-world, where I dream of hearing words never thought, create delirious scenarios that torment me with their unnatural longevity.
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