
To my three readers, me here: www.giridiparole.it .
Maybe one morning going into an air-glass, dry, turning, I see the miracle: the nothing behind me, the emptiness behind me, a drunkard's terror. Then the screen as if one be, and pitched Gitte trees Holiday packages for the usual deception. But it will be too late, and I shut up I go for men who do not look back, with my secret. (EM)
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