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This morning

Sometimes I forget that I am touched by the sun, to birches friendly inclined. That I am the one helping the wind to be visible, illuminated by gold, carefree and playful, ready to play with butterflies. Sometimes in the morning I become shriveled like some old woman, neglected and abandoned as an old hut. And although I strive towards heights and even though my wild hair betrays me; my skin becomes dry, for the ground ready, condemned to fall – as a backdrop in Tim Burton’s films.

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