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Racism stories in USA: Ahmed's clock

Somewhere there is a drawer.
I have no idea how large it is.
And I have even less of how many things are there.
Things.
Made of uniqueness and wonder.
Call them inventions.
Call them normal stuff, for those who are not and never will be trivial.
Call them also bombs.
Because even if you will strive to turn off the love for the change of the one making fly everyone else, you will not get another result.
That makes the flame on the wick.
Bigger.
Much bigger.

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