The Printer

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This man works at a printing press at the other end of the doorway for over 41 years. He scrupulously places single sheet of blank paper one after another on the 62-year-old machine, that can still print 1000 copies in an hour, the owner said proudly but this man does 400. Time has worn him out and the owner is cool about it.
“Why not change?” I asked
“Why change family tradition? Definitely not for money”

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Letterpress printing.

Letterpress printing is a technique of relief printing using a printing press. A worker composes and locks movable type into the bed of a press, inks it, and presses paper against it to transfer the ink from the type.
In practice, letterpress also includes other forms of relief printing with printing presses, such as wood engravings, photo-etched zinc “cuts” (plates), and linoleum blocks, which can be used alongside metal type in a single operation, as well as stereotypes and electrotypes of type and blocks.[1] With certain letterpress units it is also possible to join movable type with slugs cast using hot metal typesetting.
Letterpress printing was the normal form of printing text from its invention by Johannes Gutenberg in the mid-15th century until the 19th century and remained in wide use for books and other uses until the second half of the 20th century. Letterpress printing remained the primary way to print and distribute information until the twentieth century, when offset printing was developed, which largely supplanted its role in printing books and newspapers. More recently, letterpress printing has seen a revival in an artisanal form. (Source : Wikipedia)

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Near the Equator

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Watch your step. Buckle ’em.
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Those are formal wear not for cycling.
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No. 5

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fly in my room
whirring buzzing…
my unsteady eyes
chasing the
Hungarian dance

night was sombre
whisky bought me sleep
and the sly fly was smooth
on me
like bourbon

The Salad Guy

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It took a couple of seconds but then it struck me in a flash. I was driving at a speed of 70 on a remote state highway passing through the outskirts of a tiny Indian village.

I backed my car, went over, asked him to cut me a fresh bowl. “Dude, you’ve styled your hair?!”

“Brylcreem” He snorted “By the way, Mister, there ain’t much left on your head” (That’s the picture moment)

“Ahem…I’m a writer”

“Quit it. I love to chop but in a restaurant kitchen, the oven heat and closed room messes my hair. So I’m here in the open. Got it?”