STORY OF A BUTTERFLY GIRL

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved butterflies very much. She wore brightly colored clothes and, when she spoke, she moved her small arms with such lightness that they looked like vibrant wings in flight. His gait also brought with it that lightness that only butterflies naturally possess. And like butterflies he loved flowers and took great care of them.
With his mother in spring he planted bulbs and seeds and waited patiently. His little brother, still small, watched amused.
He had become her little messy little helper! At the first warmth, a leaf appears, a slender cuff, the first flower, then many others, all beautiful in their shapes and shades of their colors. Soon many beautiful butterflies would also arrive!
And the little girl was delighted and remained enchanted for hours watching that spectacle of lightness, colors and perfumes. Sometimes it happened that a butterfly would rest on her hand and the little girl was almost breathless with emotion. It remained motionless to enjoy the beauty of those colored wings and the tickle of those curious paws.
One day his little brother got a bad flu and had to stay in bed for several days. The little girl was very sorry to see her little brother suffering and sad. Then he thought of a surprise that could brighten his days. It immediately occurred to her to prepare a short story about flowers and butterflies. While his little brother was dozing, he wrote a very sweet story and prepared a merry-go-round made with wood twigs tied together, to which he hung colorful butterflies made with tufts of his mother's carded wool. When the little brother opened his eyes after his afternoon nap, the baby was there, ready, next to him. She smiled at him and started reading his story. The little brother listened raptly, in silence, with sparkling eyes.
Eventually the little girl took the mobile and showed it to her little brother. Quick as a flash he took it with his little hands and began to play with it, moving the sticks to make all those beautiful butterflies flutter.
Soon the little brother was back to health and that mobile became the best

THINKING ABOUT WHAT?

All of us, including me, are with our minds invaded by a thousand ideas, but lately I have been thinking more and more about the fact that in today’s world no one makes the effort to think, but think seriously about his life, the values ​​he has, the people, both those who are close to you and those who have gone away, what emotions do you feel when you wake up in the morning and live your day until you go to bed in the evening … Everything is too big compared to us, little human beings who think they are full (some with money, some with commitments, some with desires, some only with merits, some only with defects, some with a combination of all this), but who they’re actually fucking empty and meaningless. In my reflection in front of the mirror, I see a girl with two big blue eyes like the sky but which express nothing but false happiness because in recent years I have learned to swallow many injustices and things that are difficult to accept but also to take hits stronger than me but if internally they knocked me out, externally I had to stand up and walk with my head held high in order not to lose control of my life. Sometimes I have lost it, I do not hide it, leading to very negative and self-destructive consequences. Sometimes I think about how fast I have grown, too fast due to various events that have happened, perhaps with too much strength, stubbornness and stubbornness. Do you know what for?
To put up with two parents who asked me to behave in a normal way and see it right despite being 8 years old. I wish I had a time machine. I would like to use it to see my mom again who, despite coming home from work tired, smiled when she ran to me to kiss my forehead or to laugh out loud when my dad tickled me on the hips or to watch movies on the sofa all three together, in short, to have my moments of stability and pure family joy back. Now only small, but at the same time clear memories remain, to which I cling to smile if I feel bad. Finally, I really think that current life is taking us all away, in its immense river of frenzy, superficiality and general hypocrisy, so every now and then put yourself in a position to reflect on yourself, it is the best gift you can give yourself. If you think that life is crap, maybe sometimes you try, for example, to be less hasty when you have to run to catch a train and stop for a moment to observe the beauty that the sky has, even on dull and rainy days, or to turn it off. smartphone to go for a walk to free yourself from stress, or politely return the greeting to those who offer it to you, in short, simply live as you should.

THEY STOLE MY BYCICLE

Six years ago a friend of mine gave me his bicycle as a gift and he is gone forever. For three years the bike has always served me: I loaded it like a mule to do the shopping, we went a couple of times away and then around this green area, for months she and I, her bike. For months and miles, it was my car. I remember that she was waiting for me on the last sidewalk of the station when he left. When I left for London it was brought with great difficulty to Padua and when I returned from London I went to pick it up from Padua. It was raining heavily that day, rivers of water lined the streets and the Paduans found a girl in the rain who splashed water everywhere and sang the Christmas song “Jingle bells” in the middle of summer. I was very happy to be able to ride a bike. When I arrived at the station, the track for the bike was the last one, outside the station shelter and so I had to forcefully fit the bike onto the wagon and then pull it up, in the midst of a thousand curses on that last wagon before the locomotive. Unlike the one I have at home, this one was called “Little Mermaid” because during the winter rains of a cold and merciless reverse, I always emerged from the waters on her saddle and stayed afloat. I walked around in sub-zero temperatures and warm socks under my pants. Then one day I went to the library, serene as always, and when I go out I haven’t found her. You took away not only a bike of questionable economic value, and of fundamental practical value, but you also took away a dear memory and a piece of my life. The Little Mermaid was the only memory I had of my friend. Thieves assholes!

THE GREEN EYED GIRL

The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.
Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.

STORY OF A CIGARETTE

- sorry, would you have a cigarette? -
He saw her every morning. He knew she was one of those good girls, who never smoked. He wasn't the type. But he asked him; not so much for the cigarette as for talking to her. Just to see her lips in a dance just for him, to tell him something, anything. For him.
- no sorry. Still better for you, right? Smoking is bad -
- bad? Bad for what? -
- ah I don't know. Brain, lungs ... heart -
- what if one smokes to forget the harm they have done to his heart? -
- then in that case he needs help. He's killing himself. But I'm not a doctor, I can't know -
- Help? Guy? -
- like love. -
- and what is love like? -
- it's like when you smoke a cigarette and take his soul, but then it gets inside and kills you. But sometimes it's not like that -
- and how is it, the other times? -
- it's like when you kiss a strong person so that he can get inside you, and that person could kill you instead he chooses to save you. -
- then? -
- and then he hugs you and puts your heart close to his -
- and you? -
- I what? -
- you don't smoke. Do you have a person who can save you? -
The girl laughed.
- they were just metaphors. I don't believe in love. It was a nice way to tell you that smoking is bad for you, just like love does -
- you must have huge scars in there. -
The girl looked down.
He took her hands, looked up and saw those dead and empty and dark eyes.
- we will have to learn to hurt each other, what do you say? -
- what are you talking about? -
- I save you and you save me. Make love. We hurt each other together. Maybe every day or even every hour. But we keep ourselves alive, because we hold hands. So, are you there? -
- what if we end up killing ourselves? -
- what if we end up loving each other? -

STORY OF VINCENZO

I have always loved my life. I have never lacked for anything: family, friends, kids and everything you could ever want. But I have always felt unsuitable, always out of place, always on standby. Like I’m in a storm waiting for someone to save me. But nobody ever came. Indeed, for anything it was always a continuous “but you are strong” and never a “come here, I’ll give you a hand”. At one point I thought I was wrong. Because let’s face it, I’m a mess. I’m worse than hurt. And who was that madman, not sane, who voluntarily chose to stay? Easy, nobody. Or so I thought. Even today, if I stop to think how it all started in such a banal and simple way, a smile escapes me. It is truly absurd. I always believed that when it happened it would be a movie thing, a blatant event, a bolt from the blue. But it was not so. It was better. Because I didn’t expect it, I didn’t even notice it and it hit me straight in the heart, but this time it wasn’t a pain but a joy. And basically, nothing, I was in this place that I do my own business and to myself and I was thinking only of the duvet that was waiting for me at home. I was bored, tired and the evening went by slowly in its crap. In short, a total shit. Then I turn around and notice a boy looking out from the balcony of the private room. Tall, brown-haired, well-dressed, sipping a glass of champagne, in short, scary cool. I start staring at it. I try to make him understand that I care but without getting too unbalanced, otherwise what bitch would I have been ?! And this game of glances lasts for a while. Then I lose sight of him. I’m looking for it, but I can’t find it. Sin. The evening continues and I decide to break down on the sofa at my table and wait there for the end of the evening. But at some point I feel my back being stroked. I turn around and he was there. I just couldn’t help but smile. I don’t know why, it never happened to me. Anyway we start talking about this and that, he tells me his name and pulls me another smile. His name is Vincenzo, like my father. It doesn’t take too long for us to kiss. And what a kiss. As if at some point there was nothing. No people. No music. No chaos. Only U.S. Only his hand touching my guncia. Just her full lips on mine. Only her perfume that drove me crazy. And then bam, they call me that we have to go away. Typical. I start having fun and we had to leave. We exchanged numbers and said goodbye. In the car, while we were returning home, I came to my senses, I made up my mind and I thought I was perhaps too drunk and that I would never see him again. But as soon as I got home I sent him a message, because I had promised to do it and that stupid promise was enough for me as an excuse to do it. I fell asleep and in the morning I didn’t think about it anymore. Only by accident did I notice that he had answered me. But in that moment I don’t know, something changed in me. An alarm bell rings. But then, only later, did he realize that I had misinterpreted what my heart was trying to tell me. But there in that moment, I simply snubbed him and even in the following weeks I was elusive, absent and disinterested. At one point on the phone his name no longer appeared. And I was a little sorry. Maybe even more than a little. Certainly more than a little. Another evening was organized in that club and obviously I couldn’t miss it. I didn’t make any plans but in my heart I hoped to see him again. Even in the car I wanted to disguise my little spern by saying to my friend: “You know, I met a guy here. Who knows if there will be tonight. Otherwise c’est la vie ”. And as soon as I entered, he took a look around the room, I was not even robocop with an x-ray view. But ninete. I didn’t see him. I let out a sigh that at times my lungs burst. Do you see that I’m strange? Feeling like this for someone who has seen you half a time, and it is true that it had never happened to me before but it was still an absurd thing. So what was the only solution? Alcohol. And as I go to the bar someone grabs me by the arm, I turn around like a beast but I become a puppy as soon as I notice that he is there. And here’s another smile. We are already three, it was a record for a boy. And it was for me too. Because ripped smiles are the truest and I haven’t had them like that for a long, long time. However, let’s not waste time and go outside to talk. It’s like eight thousand degrees below zero and so we stay close, I hug him tightly and as we speak my fingers touch his back. We talk, we talk a lot. Of so many things that I am baffled by the fact that she had so much desire to open up with me. Had I really made a good impression? Miracle. Well of course we kiss and again I feel full. Full of everything. It is difficult to explain it but while I try to explain to you what I felt while kissing me, my hands tremble on the keyboard, I feel my stomach upside down, like at the rides and then I smile with my mouth, with my eyes, with my heart, with my mind. You have understood? We decide that it is time to see each other out of the context of the place, where one catches each other by chance and there is not much intimacy. When I get home, in bed, but I always think it will eventually go away. I don’t know, I try to defend myself in some way. Not to delude myself too much. The next day I brought my hopes to zero and when we go get that coffee inside of me I tell myself that this is all a bluff and that it won’t last. And you can’t understand how bad it is to think such things while you are just sitting with a person talking about nonsense but you feel good, of such a great good that it almost hurts you. So when he takes me back to the house, before going down, I kiss him and tell him: “I will never see you again”. He looks at me, gives a hint of a smile and tells me: “See you tomorrow”. But did I go up the stairs? I think I flew up to the second floor. See you tomorrow?! That is, tomorrow is the most important thing that can be said at the beginning. But it was great to be told “see you tomorrow” and to see that he was really there. From that moment on, I have completely changed or I have almost become myself again. I took courage and took off that heavy and very hard steel armor that I always carried around me and underneath a little little girl came out. I wanted to play it all. This time it either goes or breaks it. And gone. It went great. I rediscovered myself. The desire to tell me. To open my heart and my brain. To give him my hopes, my ideas, my thoughts, my feelings. I discovered the joy of laughing at nonsense, the pleasure of opening your eyes and seeing his face first. I discovered the pleasure of hugs given from behind, as if to say “don’t worry, I’m always here”. I discovered the strength that can give you a look, a word, a handshake given by someone else. I discovered the beauty of the future in making plans. I discovered the fragility but it will never be used against you. I discovered the small gestures that become immense if he does them. I discovered feeling good, because there is nothing more beautiful in the world than starting every day with the knowledge that someone loves you. And I know that compared to everything I’ve always done and said I’m inconsistent, but if to be happy to suck I have to be inconsistent then I am. And then I found love. And love, well, how can I explain it. Take Shakespeare’s sonnets, Alda Merini’s poems, Colplay’s or Ed-sheeran’s songs, take Nutella, sunsets, books, music, movies, laughter, hugs, cotton candy, planes , Mc Donald’s, summer, clouds, the rainbow, hot chocolate, TV series and multiplied by ten billion. Here, that is similar to love for you. Instead for me love is one thing. For me, love is Vincenzo. Because sometimes it happens, not just in movies. This is for you. Thanks for existing.

HOW DO I FEEL?

How do you feel when everything you do never gets paid for? When are you the only one fighting, but keep getting attacks and defending yourself with a meager patch shield? How do you feel when you see everything shattered, when the closer you get to something, the more it moves away from you? Disappointed, in pieces. You just want to break down, unplug and pass your joystick to someone who can win your war, because you know that if you keep playing, you will keep losing.
Last night I had an absurd mood swings. It is a particular period, as it is for everyone, and I am living it differently than a few months ago … in all respects. I’m not who I want to be with and where I want to be. At first I let the pressure and the sense of not belonging slip on me, only in the last period and especially in the last days I have more bad mood than anything else. Not intended only as sadness, but also as anger, boredom, apathy and nostalgia. I cashed in and cashed in, slipped, improved and perfected, but the road is still long and I didn’t stop to breathe a little. This is why tonight I missed the air even more and I was sick, I was crying and sobbing. Then, as every time, I recovered slowly. I fell asleep late and slept little, I collapsed destroyed at five in a heavy sleep … I slept well at least! I don’t usually ask for help or talk about these moments because I don’t like being looked at with different eyes and showing what my weaknesses are, and I don’t even do it with the people I love that I know could take me high in a second. Zero nightmares.
For dinner my husband ordered sandwiches from Burgher King so yes, they eat sandwiches and I ate bulgur and vegetables. But I wasn’t very hungry and then the smell of those sandwiches disgusts me. After dinner we went to my sister-in-law to watch a series. The streets were deserted, dimly lit and very sad. On the way, however, I saw six balconies of different houses decorated with lights of every color and I thought that sometimes someone would like it to be always Christmas. The streets were deserted and sad-looking and I like to think that people had put lights on to give soul and color to the streets. Once home we sat on the sofa to watch RAGNAROK, because she likes Thor. At home I never watch TV, and the two of us have never seen it together, but in reality we have never spent time together after my wedding. Anyway I like her with her, she’s relaxing and we have fun. Now I’m in bed, I’m sleepy but I want to look at flowers, they relax me. If you like, can you recommend me some movies / TV series in the comments, privately or anonymously?

STORY OF A GIRL ON THE BENCH

It happened a month ago. I was sitting in the car, as my father was driving around, he was ready to buy something; the car was a patched church from a near to the park and to pass the time I observed the people, parrot and they could not see me, because the windows yes, but I, if they shouted, could also hear them. There were many groups and small groups scattered around the park, they laughed, joked. I noticed a girl sitting completely alone on her bench, it was the bench closest to my car so she could see well her big sad eyes that each both guarded in all over the park and, by chance and met others immediately turned to look down. Her dark hair was tied up in a disorderly fashion, in a notebook on her legs and a pen in her left hand, she was left-handed. He stared at the notebook with the tip of the pen between his teeth and, each wrote, as unexpectedly encourages inspiration. Every now and then he would stop and get in his way quickly. I saw a tall handsome boy approaching the bench, he asked for something pointing to the bench, read nodded and then he sat down. I lowered the window a little, just not to be seen and heard, where absolutely to see how it ends. The girl had closed the notebook leaving the pen inside, the boy raised his hand in the air and started shouting according to someone to approach. And here comes a beautiful girl, the classic barbie who stands next to him. -Sorry, we’re leaving soon, we have to wait for some friends but we’re giving a lot of standing time and there is no free bench, it bothers you say it .- She shook her head with a forced smile and then turned away from the Other part, not from saying no. He made a strange face, put his hand on his forehead and shook his head and I understood. He probably thought -How could I think that it was come here for me, what a fool! in a romantic puzzle. Then he lowered his head, I knew what he was feeling, I knew it very well. The people who passed in front of that bench turned around for a moment to look at it, pointed at it to the rest of the group and then a general laugh was heard. She pretended not to hear, not to notice, but her knuckles had turned white from how much she held the pen. Another boy approached her and without asking anything he sat down, she didn’t even look at him. He did not call anyone, he stood there and looked in front of him, clapped his hands on his legs and his right leg moved nervously. He asked the girl for the time and she coldly answered him, without even looking into his eyes. Then he continued to write. After a few seconds of silence he asked her -What do you write? – Her pen fell on the ground, she didn’t pick it up and then said: -Nothing that could interest you- -That I should judge- -The truth is that I have never read to anyone what I write- – Are you a writer? – -I would like to, but it’s not my gift, let’s say .- -How do you know if no one has ever read what you write? – -I need to judge what I write. – No it is not true. Do you think you are beautiful? – -I? Of course not .- -Here, you see? For me you are instead, and in my opinion it is the same thing with what you write- -I really have to go now- said the girl getting up. The boy stood there saying nothing, watching her as she walked away. After a while he got up too, and with his hands in his pockets went to the opposite side. I was shocked, I didn’t understand why she left, she wasn’t used to being complimented and she probably couldn’t handle the situation. I would have liked to get out of the car and stop her, tell her there was nothing to fear, to try to be happy, but how could I if, in the end, I am like her? And so a month went by, I didn’t think about it anymore. Yesterday I was walking around the town with a friend of mine, I was talking to her quietly when at a certain point I saw her, the girl from the park, she had loose hair and a beautiful smile and, you know the nice thing? He was holding hands with that boy, they walked past me and I looked at them for a while. Who knows what had happened, from that afternoon to that moment, what story there was, I wanted so much to know it, but, for the moment, I’m content to imagine it. I just hope they will be happy.





EVERYTHING N FIRE

It's true I often burned my paintings, notebooks, books, I burned to forget that I was an artist. To forget the power to create from nothing. It was exhilarating, demeaning, tiring, it was destructive to me too. But my life was fire, fire lit every day. Now there is not even the ash left. I have burned souls, I have burned whole nights, burned words and loves. All together incinerated in a moment of sublime beauty. The green fire.
My green fire guided me. It was night, it was day and for me it was always life. But it doesn't burn forever. Eventually we turn off.
Eventually the coal becomes blacker. Very black. You find it in the walls, inside your inner walls, and you always get dirty every color you try to trace on your door. But Black crosses the threshold, reaches you, takes everything, burns you completely.
She was the one in the photo, holding a bouquet of flowers and a red hen’s crest on her head. It was she who acted among the frightened girls. Hamlet hadn’t hesitated either in his gestures or in his voice. And she continued to play a role that was not hers: the good girl who goes out of her way to meet her father’s expectations. A studious pupil, a caring daughter. Never any drift or dangerous friendship. Never any friends who are too annoying or a boyfriend who is too jealous. Never any of that. Only music and art, mixed with the tears that often bathed his pillow. He loved his mom and dad. He went out of his way to make them happy. And her little sister also loved and often played with her and never teased her. Growing up he had kept that naive and innocent look, that beautiful vivacity of one who has not known evil. Yet Hamlet knew evil from an early age, when a man took her innocence. Her nightmares were frequent and she did not know who that man was and she could never see his face. Maybe it was the shadow that appeared in her paintings or maybe she lived next to it without knowing that her executioner was the one who fed her. The executioner was always present. The executioner who had destroyed her at the age of 4.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are deeply necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough for him.

STRANGE GIRLS

I’m that weird girl, yes weird. You know? The one who, among friends, is stupid and laughs, for everything. The one who prefers to cry in the bedroom alone and not in front of everyone. The one with the moments of madness and the paranoid ones. The one that gives meaning to every bracelet on her wrist. The one who prefers to take the picture and not be there. The one that keeps everything. The one who loses everything: keys, headphones, buses, people, respect. The one who asks “sorry” even when the fault is not his. The one who lives every single place and book. The one who imagines what she wants by her side, everywhere. The messy one. The one with complicated thoughts, which no one understands. The one who loves hugs more than kisses. The one who loves to write and not smoke. The one who, to be happy, does not need drugs but the smile of those she loves. The one who does not look for people for fear of annoying. The one who never writes to anyone but waits. The one with the smudged makeup at parties. The grumpy one, who responds badly. The one who would like to be kinder, but has that anger inside that, sometimes, ruins the good speeches she would like to make. The one that puts others first and then herself. The one who gives others what she would like to receive. The strange one. So, do you have this in mind? Here, it’s me. “
They are a human contradiction. I have no faith in myself, but I am self-centered. I want to do many things and I always have a thousand projects in mind, but I want to die. I want to make people believe that I am strong, but I cry all the time. In every situation I am indifferent and detached, but everything wounds me to death because I am hypersensitive. When I get up, every morning, I want to be happy and start the day well, but I also want to never get up and sleep forever.
There are those days where you feel the world is collapsing on you and you don’t want to see or hear anyone but you have to face everything. You get the urge to disappear, to go away but you don’t know where to go and so you look at yourself, you observe yourself and you ask yourself “what the fuck am I doing here? Why do I make so many mistakes? Why do I wither everything I meet? Everything ends and I am the cause. I am the person who while loving you, at the same time kills you. Where the more you stay together the more you suffer, where it is impossible to continue because I am impossible, irrecoverable, paranoid and irascible. I just have to leave myself to fate, to hope for a better day than today, yesterday and even before.
Alice, it was better to stay in Wonderland, don’t you think? Reality isn’t what you imagined, is it? But tell me, what did you think it was like to grow up? You always wanted to be happy. You didn’t think there was so much pain in the world. You thought they were all there, ready to stop your falls. You thought you were going to be a star someday. And now you are there, Alice, sitting in that dark corner, with that blood coming out of her arms, legs and soul. And cry, Alice. Cry, because you can’t take it anymore. Cry, because you stopped fighting. Cry, because you are not enough. Cry, because you are one too many. You cry, because you no longer know anything. Cry, why do you dry their tears but who dries yours? Cry, because your eyes can no longer hold all those tears trapped. Cry, because you are a mistake. Cry, because you are a disappointment. Cry, because you are like that. You cry, because you no longer find reason to continue breathing. You cry, because you have finished living for a while. Cry, because the monsters who lived under your bed grew up with you and moved into your head. Cry, because you want to end it. You cry, because you are too afraid to end it. You cry, because you are afraid. You call the White Rabbit, you want to be led back to Wonderland. You scream, you scream, he doesn’t hear you. Look at you, Alice. Where did you go? Why did you let yourself go? Alice will pass, you’ll see. Alice, you’ll be fine. Alice, Alice, why is it all dark around you? Alice have you gone away? Alice, Alice, do you see me from up there? Alice how much blood did you leave here. Is there any piece of your heart, in the midst of all this red? Alice, you were so little. So fragile. And to think, that it was enough just for someone to take care of you. Alice, Alice, Alice. Now in Wonderland you will stay there forever, aren’t you happy?

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