
why have you been hiding your hands behind your face, my friend… your eyes are beautiful, but it is your hands that write those verses, broken and beautiful, those verses. I do not remember you by your face… of course I recognize your face… but I remember you by your hands… your hands dance when you write. I wonder why no one ever speaks of a writer’s dance or of the wind’s voice… wind speaks… much more articulate than most of the people I came across today… but I do not want to go there… I want you to tell me what the wind told you… I saw a picture… you were waving your hands, the wind throwing your hair around… I could even hear your hysteric laughter… was it something the wind said?
I really do not want to listen to the things that they are screaming in the room across the hall… I want to talk to a friend of my heart… listening to some ambient drones earlier something happened… the phone pulled me back though and I landed with this thought: death is the truth, and truth is death… just want to tell you about it… heart to heart…

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