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My darlingI’m waiting for you. How long is a day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone now and I’m horrible cold. I really ought to drag myself outsidebut then there’d be the sun. I’m afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribestastes we have swallowedbodies we have entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we’ve hidden inlike this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We’ve the real countries. Not the boundaries draw on mapsthe names of powerful men. I know you’ll come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That’s all I’ve wantedto walk in such a place with youwith friends. An Earth without maps. The lamp’s gone out and I’m writing in the darkness. |
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