In this attic there is no light anymore. Nothing penetrates the small windows from which we used to watch the moon’s rays playing on the chestnut leaves during our first autumn.
In darkness I sit down and wrap a piece of a burned candle around loves which are born out of pity. How pathetic.
I hear a whisper: perhaps my old toys locked inside the old Spanish chest. They still talk among themselves, don’t they?
You were right. I’ve never was what I appeared to be: a common girl walking in the streets and drinking mocktails in bars.
I used to laugh. Yet you did not drown in my laughter. You vanished inside my melancholy; inside the dead world to which I’ve always aspired. You’ve remained there forbidding my laughter for fear of not forgetting me.
Oh, that loyalty of yours in the mist of all temptations.
The night is…
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