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■ The oak
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Covering the clay altars on our temples
with old and new faces, we pretend, secretively, that we don't miss anything, that nothing hurts us. In some favorable seasons we are happy... In the morning, at the side of a moment, we wake up naked and old but come back to life throughout the day because it gets cold. Our souls are so old that they've become used to the memory of the angel's wounds left by love... Our flight is just a line above the sand castle we build in the evening, when we pray or when we dream.
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