‘When the pen had cut into my swollen fingers… my eyes became blinded by too many tears, I would go to the window. I heard the wave of wind colliding with the trees in the park, or the mute darkness of the night, barely illuminated by the street lamps, whose luminous crowns were obscured by the foliage. In those long hours I was the sentinel of grief, keeping watch along w/ a crowd of dead words.’
— Mar 05, 2024 08:34AM
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