These days I write a little book on black (or rather color board), I write a thousand typos, tilt it, I write sentences in half, but does not seem bad. If I had time to complete them, then. I discovered that I write have to be patient (with myself than with others) and that the color of patience (I do not think sound has the patience) is not resignation, but that hope too. And the pain too. And courage too.
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