We have not always had this certainty, this pessimism that reassures the best among us.
There was a time when my friends laughed at me.
I was not the master of my words.
A certain indifference; I did not always know what I wanted to say, but most often, it was because I had nothing to say—the necessity of speaking and the desire not to be heard.
My life is hanging only by a thread.
There was a time when I seemed to understand nothing.
My chains floated on the water.
All my desires are born of my dreams.
And I have proven my love with words.
To what fantastic creatures have I entrusted myself, in what dolorous and ravishbeautiful has my imagination enclosed me?
I am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own.
The language of my love does not belong to human language; my body does not touch the flesh of my love.
My amor anticipation has always been constant and high enough so that nothing could attempt to convince me of error.
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