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that masque of the red death,
or that raven prowling around my window,
I witness Faustus selling his soul, order Mephistopheles to burn
in flames eternally, help Don Quixote to beat his giants, spend
hours helping the little prince to take out all the baobabs,
but after all,
I always end up in Dante’s paradise,
in Hopscotch’s heaven…
He creates and recreates me
He destroys and re-builds me again
and finally I understood,
it’s not me, it’s the book…
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