There was once a very large group of writers that had nothing better to do than to sit around relaxing and writing small parts of an on-going story about writers that sit around, relax and write. (Your turn.)
"Because obviously we don't have Native Americans in India, my good man. Besides, his communication to me arrived a year after he was massacred." And Gupta took a sip of soup, and asked, "Where have all the others gone?"
"Apologies, good people, for the intrusion." The voice was shrouded like a seabird lamenting across the bay. "I collect toenail clippings for the poor. Anything you can spare will feed hungry children for 3 moons." She looked at the nails lying on the muddy floor and the few dangling from the bird's nest hair. The maid gently slid the toe, which lay a few inches away from her own foot, under her skirts. Both the maid and Gupta still had all ten of theirs.