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There comes a time when you make up your lovers
give them names like you used call your dolls line them up in your bedroom and tell them what to say to your legs, to your neck or how you used to blur his waters. Your heart has been restless, it now makes noises like a thousand workers on a scaffolding of your body: I accept my body is going to Heaven but I rather have my soul wondering in the streets of Craiova, with smoke, the smell of fresh donuts, but in no hurry. With only 5000 you could be dressed up in a paper dress with cardboard shoes like a Cinderrela and sent back to Romania where you can say words in your native tongue where you can wisper something in his ear where your mum keeps in a cupboard a tiny bit of hair a silver spoon and some plates with seven dwarfs every day you add another tin to the plane made of tomatoes tins every day.
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