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At each of our coffees she comes prepared, scented with its mysterious waves of silence, irony and misery. Clothed in the majesty of her smile, she throws sparks on me with her sights. Like some queen who wears her throne in her movements; gentle and cruel, spreading her ears like a small squirrel. And she does not know what to give me, and she has already given it all, so she puts a glittering item in my palm, calling it a compass, and says I always know how to find her. I stare at that little device, those copies of her universes, and I’m afraid to get lost. But she got lost. She never called again. She captured herself among the stars. Looking at that compass now, the only thing I really see is the star dust.


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