My days are a vain repetition of a purpose I have forgotten, of a sacrament that has lost all flavor. In my moving, there have been dreams I thought I could achieve, but always they crumble into a thousand flakes just when I try and cast off from the shore within them. Why do I keep trusting these imaginary vessels? Or maybe the explanation of me is in something else. I have lost love, somewhere: and perhaps that is the whole tale of my life summed up in five words: they make the why to the rest of it…. But really, don’t mind me, because I have ceased to exist; nowhere in this world will you find me, for I have become one of my own dreams: I thought I could be me, but I was merely an illusion, a prayer that a child spoke every night, kneeling without ever believing in the miracle, so no miracle ever happened.
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