And other unfinished stories

My dear, of course — all our lives, this and the others, have been nothing but documents of loss. That we’ve lost each other irretrievably is no news : this third planet from the sun, don’t you know, is known in all the universes for its coldness– no one can match it in its precise and perfect execution of unbearable situations. No one knows how it so happened, why suddenly such cruelty, such perversity, such bitterness in all its heart? Some remember the young earth : I can’t believe it, happy and gentle, couldn’t have hurt a fly. What happened, then, my love, what did our dear planet — where we live, where we will die, perhaps without ever seeing each other — lose in its childhood? What grief does it hold in its horrible heart? Why this rage? Why its need to be the greatest author of loss? 


Sometimes, dear, I dream about the other earth : where I smile with my just kissed lips, and ask you to make me a cup of tea because I am too lazy to get out of bed so early in the morning.

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