of the almost warm absences that still prevail under the fingertips where the longings dwell, belatedly latent the reasons cannot be explained perhaps they don't even exist, by belief but they are a mixture of affection and the vertigo of letting oneself stay a little, a little longer at night he crossed the insane desert and lay down on the warm dunes there was no more life there only the echo of the ancient pulse the silence only invited to absence, to remembrance the pale purple recalled the rare light of her skin a face gleaming under the moonlight the brief smile of the dead muse no longer
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