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  • Dead.

    Adeadorgan fell asleep and did not wake up, when I counted on him to lead me, to speak up. Seven hundred days and a feeble body, seventeen thousand hours and a missing sorry.
    Adeadorgan was buried and forgotten, under layers of unfound pain, sputum and insults of disillusion. I did not go to the funerals. I like to believe that if a legend does not die at twenty seven, it is just a trickery, a regrettable fake promotion to remind how much his presence meant to me. But when I woke up and realized that now he would never hurt me anymore, I understood that he would also never make me happy; that was the only purpose I loved him for.
    So I went outside, in the wild streets, with my umbrella and my grey dress hoping to meet, a doctor, a plomber that would make him live, maybe damaged but able to feel.
    I made the acquaintance of a politician; he was short but surely charismatic. He was not from the right branch but promised me he would make him speak. He hardly tried, and like all men involved in politics, he started to lie, to serve me his drinks, his tricks. So I left the bar and danced in the lonely avenues, thinking maybe it would give me a better view; I wasn't so miserable so I asked myself "do you really need Adeadorgan now that you're carefree and sorrow-less?".
    Mornings came everyday at my window, rarely rainy but never sunny. I understood that since I ignored the death of my vital buddy, I would wake up everyday without pain. How much would you pay for a life surely calm but unhappy?
    So this time I put on a red dress, went outside to fix this longterm mess; On my way to the doctor I ran into a magician who use to be a dictator. He said he could help me, so I showed him Adeadorgan's grave, where was sleeping the dead body. The magician sat and waited, a couple of months, a couple of days. I found out magicians never existed, but he always thought he was, never questioned it; and with confidence and volition, the man succeeded in the rising of Adeadorgan.
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