I was lying in the thick grass that adorned the perimeter of a stream. Something had kidnapped my young mind, starting to lead it, undisturbed, among the aching sighs of people I would never have known. I was gazing up at the clear sky and caressing the flowers, when a memory crueler than any I could ever have suspected of having descended like a bolt of lightning and struck my innocence.
The dream dirty my mind
and the mad man keeps saying to me:
"I'm the rabbit in the hat".
But I tell him that I'm not Alice.
Every pain, every pleasure. Is this what forges me and has forged me? I spent my whole short life running away, wasting my time in a bet with loneliness. I heard voices coming from the thick forest, fear paralyzed me, and yet I ran. All my will quivered in wishing that those voices and those words were even more distant than the distant echoes.
But in this moment, I am sadly lying down, and the night hurts me. Although the moon still cradles my lonely soul, I am aware that it can no longer heal the wounds, now physical, of my heart: the arrow that came from someone who was too far away to be seen is taking on the existence that I have not never lived

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