and a game. I got to imitate. detaching from the surface the outline of my understanding and compliance. appeasing the scruples subsequent injections of neglect and that's all I do not care, come from within. and a kind of satisfaction and maturity to hang on the walls, with the design on the side of fresh paint in dust and meanings relevant evidence in the foreground. are only required to sense, to be shared. are just innocently unlawful provocation of curiosity. and tell me if I'm just endless brackets in the newspaper in which a look and try to distract you, nothing more, questions posted on the corner of readers, empty seats in the front row of stalls in a crowded theater, donations to fund humanitarian aid as too long to remember, comments circumstantial palate with sauce and meat on the news of the dinner, to take your eyes off the bottle of water, which is empty. as something to avoid any depth or any tangency dispatches in existence pills away, objective assessments of the time to share the death. and if I had allowed me I would have made it very useful, but one day you told me that I had to send you gifts by mail, even if the bell was another. and I was smiling the day I discovered that books were once attached pages, for printing needs and to upgrade their openers, and that a page has not cut anyone has never read and you are the first to read it, the first to breathe on ink and cleared his eyes and waited excited, smiling to look neighbors, and so safe from all ambiguity and anxiety and pain and the walls to support it, so watch peacefully, in the geometry of a storm that changed everything without leaving any residue if, if not the change itself.
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