there is something deeply wrong in being broken under a clear sky. it was a day like this. a me that knew not. with eyes wide open recognizing no shapes, knowing nothing, just like a child. only not able to glance like a child does anymore - i'm not a tabula rasa, i'm a palimpsest. a one that recreates itself, and each time, even if it becomes a new sheet ready to be written on, it gets heavier. by the ink it has contained, by the number of recompositions, by the crash of bonds broken.
so, flicker, this page is not clear - it's only empty
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