do not know if it's nostalgia or a kind of maternal sense of detachment, this sense of a missing piece of me. our time together watching and breathe the world is broken, so much respect for the closed closet where now I write and spend my days. I do not feel that this is my life. see the 'outside' makes you aware of the smallness of the 'inside'. and the voltage at the drain is strong and fierce. share a bed, table, bathroom, alarm clock and the effort has consolidated your presence. calm, settled, happy. and at the same time my desire to live like this every day.
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