I don't know how many readers there are among you but I know that at least some will read novels. What do you think of the books that are not written by the authors but by the ghostwriters? When you buy a book with a famous name on the cover, do you know that the book was probably not written by him?
Fake bags, fake clothes and fake items are requisitioned and anyone who sells fake stuff is arrested. But the fake books still run.
What do you think if you pay for a book by E.L. JAMES very dear and then it's not written by you? Or what if the books weren't written by J. K. Rowling? What do you think of all those books that show famous names as authors and are then written by others? In your opinion, is this not a scam? There are a lot of writers who write books but they don't get published because they don't have a famous name. Then the publishers have them write a lot of works and then give them the names of famous writers. So they are not original books but they are a fake. Sometimes I noticed certain strange things in the novels and that the person who wrote the play was not the famous one. It happened to me with some recent books by Isabel Allende and also with Stephen King and Patricia Cornwell. Has this ever happened to you? The worst thing is that these authors are not paid adequately but are exploited and not valued for what they do.


The clock strikes 4.44. I breathe, I breathe. I am still and yet it is as if I had made a run, a run at breakneck speed. I sleep and I see it. I see her. Beautiful as always. Words, words, words, words, words. Words and voices that don’t go away. I believed those words, with and without a voice. They poison my mind. Ah my mind. A field after a battle. Swarming with things that are no longer anything. And they were everything. Enough, enough, enough, enough! A shadow. Here’s what they are. A broken and toxic shadow. Food for the night and its ghosts. Idiot! I am the ghost! A dead man who still wanders. Haunted by his nightmares. Yes, I am the specter. Idiot! It is so. I’m an idiot. But I can’t get out of it. I can’t find the damn door. Of this prison. Which is making me disappear.
If pillows could talk, they will tell others how I am depriving myself of sleep, regretting past decisions while my “what if” scream in my head and they will also tell others that I wake up in the middle of sleep because I am haunted by unwanted memories, those undesirable memories that turn into nightmares. If pillows could talk, they will tell others those days when I questioned my worth, those days when I entrusted my happiness to someone who loved me and yet showed me how replaceable I am and they will also say how absurd I was to believe made up excuses for every call or every ignored message. If pillows could speak, they will tell others how often I feel weighed down by responsibilities I carry on my shoulders that I didn’t have to have. If pillows could talk, they’d say they’re sick of catching my tears every time I get scared, broken and tired because I’m weak. They will tell others how sensitive I am that I easily notice whenever there is a slight change towards me from those close to me. And if only pillows could talk, they’ll tell others I’m having a good fight, tell others how many times I’ve rebuilt, tell others that no matter how many times I’ve shed tears, I’ve never denied myself smiling and breaking my heart. life like I’m not exhausted. It’s a cycle, they burn me out, I wear out and then I get back to working.
It doesn’t matter who you spend the day with. The important thing is who you spend the night with, when doubts, fears and worries are strongest. It is important with whom you spend the night because close to us you have the person who fills our heart, mends the most serious wounds and is that person who despite having seen our biggest defects has loved them all the same.


The butterflies that fluttered blissfully from flower to flower, those singular flowers from different places, from different worlds, but I admit it ... I too was certainly not common, a totally singular construction.

A gazebo with some vague hint of oriental, the fulcrum of a colorful and well-kept garden, a part of children running around mockingly trying to catch themselves.

Mothers groan trying to get them back on the way home every morning and every afternoon.

In the evening it made me more curious, some couples arm in arm that reached me through the pebble and exchanged a few hasty kisses or even those who greeted each other and then began to have those group chats that lasted until late now.

Certainly the night was magical ... the silence began to dominate, the fireflies were my only companions even if far away and the always frenetic city around me began to silence.

The days went on and the changing of the seasons certainly did not tire or disappoint me, the rainy days brought me someone who nervously found shelter under me and waited for a moment of respite, the snow instead hypnotized me but bothered someone who, armed with a shovel, had to clean me. 

The years went by happily and the children who cried had grown old and often sat on newly placed benches and admired my garnet color, the progress of time led to changes and year after year my fantastic garden began to recede and my vision diminished.

To reach me now it was necessary to look for me a little more, but the visits certainly did not disappear.

One day it was carved on one of my columns, it squeezed my heart, a girl accompanied an advanced woman with the help of a stick who went up and looking at me told that her first kiss had exactly given it there, against one of mine columns, but strangely she was crying and I didn't understand ... she did it as if I were no longer there.

Well, a short time passed after I understood that cry ... other buildings overwhelmed me shortly after and the view no longer even existed, the children were a distant memory like the flowers and butterflies ... the magical world that surrounded me had been turned into concrete and suddenly my life was taken from me by a very cruel progress.

I was a fulcrum, I was life, now I am kissed by the sun and barely remembered by stories handed down, of those who have enjoyed the happy past of a small gazebo now hidden that can only look through a gate.

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