The last cup of an argentinian red wine(a generous form of intoxication) is in my hands: insomnia is killing me. The future seems to be abolished in lengthy daydreams where I have walled myself off from the world. I remember your skin: a folded presence of time: I admired the evaporated fecundity of magic, the traces of the elemental forest: an illusion stumbled across the red wine...
I never had the luck to construct your inner weather...
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