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Sometimes I think I might be writing a letter to sleep, that I might be asking him if he remembers me, if he ever plans on coming back. I’ve received no word from death’s brother.
Maybe we were all looking for one another without knowing it.
How could I still be in this thing, answering to its endless needs and betrayals?
Why did living feel so invisibly brief and unbearably long at once?
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It is a danger to accept anything real from another person, to know something of them. A person has to be careful about the voices they listen to, the faces they let themselves see.
