“Tonight I could write the saddest poem, but I don’t mind crying in a pretty dress. I have never dedicated a poem to my heart, and I lose myself in everything I do. Nothing is mine. I own nothing; I am alone. My eyelashes are wet and my eyes talk to God, even in the brightness of the day. I take too many showers, insignificantly. I keep looking at my hands to remind myself that I am still a poet. I could write the saddest poem tonight: No fantasy sustains me anymore, and I die alone in my bed.”

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