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  • Reminiscence, remembering are the world’s most deepening spirals. They bring you together with states of being whose existence you have never considered. In a rather obscure system of disbelief he woke up to realize that he was his father’s son. His childhood nightmares have grown into the closest thing to this authentic species of the reality he now knew.

    Confronted to the zealous fear of waking up to a life where he became his character, the diligent kid that always waited for the green light, he elapsed days by not putting on an alarm clock and calling in sick.

    My name is Hector; I am 43 years old and so very far from making my dreams come true. I have married young, I was in love with this idea of sacred institution and I entered it with the sound belief that it was for good and forever. Today my bones cede little by little under the oppression of being left not alone, just without you. Outcast of your life, I have spent the last three days on the mattress. There is no longer a bed, I threw it out. I threw everything out. Too much of you. It was so invasive and time-consuming. These objects made me imagine, imagine you, cut you from one photography and glue you onto another. Soon every memory I had of you became the same picture with hands of eyes and mouths of necks.

    My name is Hector and I am a Marry-annkoholic. I have not Mary-Anned for one month, three days and six hours now and I do not feel fine. It hurts my throat not to be calling your name. My hand got numb from not holding yours and I have ripped my lips. I’ve decided I no longer needed them. I have lived a life of depressions, I know them, and they know by heart the inner heart of my heart. It’s like going to bed with an old lover. This time it is different. The dimension of this thing I’m enclosed in is no longer a state of my mind. It is an indefinite timeless hole where I remained without you. Forever. Last night my thoughts began to chase every memory they had of you, following rapidly the shapes of different cut elements of your pictured body. I tried to organize them chronologically, but it did not work since a mind is this amorphous gathering of flesh and you, you are not. You are no longer. This is the sole phrase that I now comprehend. You. Are. Not. I then began to think of your fingers. I sought to imagine our memories by following the traces of your raw and anchored body. But you are not. You are not. I have to repeat it loudly. You are not.

    My name is Hector. I am 43 years old and I carry on on this mattress with the stance that neither death nor living would do me no good.
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