The Curse of Being Inside Yourself

Mira was fully in Margaret's head speaking her voice, feeling her curvy white pale body from the inside. She left the flat and somehow using an A to Z map Walked to her uncle Horritius place a mile away in Wembley. When she showed up at the iron gate of his decaying semi-detached Victorian Dressed in a red sari and a camel hair court Carrying a neat little suitcase with an ivory handle The journey had forced her into composure. Her reshunctal began droning on about how good Indian boys got entrapped in such relationships These maims really knew how to blackmail them.