imagem: José Calimero

“…these selves of which we are built up, one on top of another, as plates are piled on a waiter’s hand, have attachments elsewhere, sympathies, little constitutions and rights of their own, call them what you will (and for many of these things there is no name)…”
Orlando, Virginia Woolf

Have you peeked through a keyhole? Have your ears become fond of doors and their touch? Have your eyes turned into lip readers?
You are wrong if you think you are a veil lifter.
At first you are dragged into a spiral of self portraits and no doubt it is you standing there alone naked, it is you no matter what they say. The sound, it is your voice echoing in the library, in your room and it is the same one resonating within you. The words your mind deciphers, they are a copy of the ones already written on a much perennial fabric – impossible to erase or overwrite – it is part of the whole. Regardless of the direction you move, the digging has begun. It only ceases when you surface

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