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... Once I penned a poem, I set down my brush and wiped my perspiration. “’When I was young, I couldn’t fit in with the world’s customs. Mountains of pork shoulders braised in soy sauce were my companions. I fell for the secular world’s snares, thus gone for thirteen years.’ Uhm, magnificent writing, potent strength, the fruits of my labour show. My calligraphy is not bad.”
“What in the world are you doing?” Boss came in and set down a tray of hot tea in addition to a basket of snacks. ...
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