If the match that sticks to the fingers and burns the skin was fresh air, it would not have alienated my nervous system, it would not have put the tiny scream in my pores multiplied by a thousand
of heat without noise.
My hands would be autonomous extremes that would not ask for explanations
which I, the enemy of Time, cannot give you
nor can I tell you:
â Dear hands: I have been burnedâ
loneliness, it is only noticeable
with companyâ
Oh! Illuminate the spark
the bonfire is produced
and the light burns.

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