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To be old and white
and not ashamed to walk in the rain with a black umbrella, to be obviously painted in white like an old-fashioned mill, so white that even the white cherry petals are too heavy for the crown of your head Such as you look out of place compared with other people, with the red cars, with the rain inside children’s nostrils you keep on walking, wise like a tin toy drummer, bringing to life the whole orchestra, waking up those who believed they were awake, you are the white of the paper upon which the world wrote a masterpiece and erased it
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