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VIJAY

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LIKE & DISLIKES ARE ONLY NUMBERS YOU WANT MORE NUMBERS TO BE FAMOUS Like and dislike are only numbers you want more numbers to be famous

LIKE & DISLIKES ARE ONLY NUMBERS YOU WANT MORE NUMBERS TO BE FAMOUS Like and dislike are only numbers you want more numbers to be famous

Eni Ola

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A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

Eni Ola

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A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

Eni Ola

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A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

A 'Yes' to God is a 'No' to the devil. You cannot be passive; you either choose God or satan #Prime

Arun Chandrawanshi

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#prime

#prime

Abinesh

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I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers

I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers