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words that marry to others faithfully to give birth to phrases,
phrases that gather together in powerful sentences like strong
unions,
sentences that travel one next to the other like train cars full of
paragraphs,
paragraphs like bricks building towers of chapters,
chapters that gave birth with pride to empires,
empires of books that arrogantly wants to colonize me.
It’s not me,
It’s he who seeks to read to himself,
he searches me like some wandering soul
with the unwearying desire to be heard.
Some nights, I’m his analyst,
others his friend, his enemy,
his lover, his obsession.
It’s not me,
It’s the book who wants me to be
everything I am not,
and page after page
I become all who I always wanted to be
The Maga that peruses each bar in Paris,
The girl who runs as fast as she can after a white rabbit who cries
out: “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!”
and suddenly! I’m transported in the time machine,
to ancient abandoned times where I meet Grendel,
Chaucer forces me to go on a never-ending pilgrimage with
strange people,
Then, I turn the world in 80 days,
I find myself in the center of the earth,
I go deep into Raskolnikov’s inner being and it disturbs me.
I madly fall in love with Heathcliff,
I move like a pendulum between Hamlet’s impulse and reason.
Full of fear, I dive into my white sheets to kill all thoughts about
that black cat,

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