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I am a master of writing "khunta." I am the chief writer of "khunta." The scribe of "khunta." Cool, I'll name my musical group that. Scribe of Khunta. Khunta's Scribe. Khunta Pi__ets. Name any theme for me, and I will write a "khunta." And a scribe. And a "khunta." I love to write "khuntas," the best rhyming wordsmith has emerged from within me. Khunta, khunta, khunta. Nyanyanya, a beige door usurped a cup of floral tea in order to ride on a pillow of uncertainty into the bloodthirsty expanses of metallic pages of written chairs, a dancing parquet floor, and morph into a jelly-like, insanely vibrant box of flat volumes of a stream of matrixity. Here, a poplar is eating straw. Khunta.