Day Nine. To Write.

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An inaccurate portion of light passes through the long field of my feelings. The taxi in the morning, four letters by heart, the precise memory of an ordinary place, beyond any boundaries.

I write for the same reasons I exist, not to back out of opinions, I write as I need daily strictness, I need to be clear on which opinions to offer myself to. 

And for sure it will not be the lightness that here lives in everything, this going to the border between good and evil, to make me a star or a line, a glass or what’s inside it. Waiting to be drunk.