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  • Lying on this bed like an empty stage,

    The night used to have a bright future: a late goodmorning, a sun, some certitudes.
    But here I am, trying to sleep on these questions. Which scene comes after this one? I am not even sure.

    My head on the pillows, my wonders stuck under the covers;
    The ceiling stares, I contemplate the curtains, mute.

    Happiness is a huge trap, it never offers parachutes,
    And sometimes I wonder: is it better to lie or to tell the half of a truth?

    The night will be a waste, will it ever end?
    Because it seems stuck between the fearless questions and the horrible answers.
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