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You'll be happy to know (or not know) that i lost you for nothing
but maybe you left 'cause i already didn't have anything left
so i'm experimenting now the fact that I was the one who didn't have anything, 'cuz now that I have only what comes from myself I don't have anything. So empty. still so tired. I was so by myself, then. I'm so sorry.


Wrinting this mémoire is like trying to splash myself on a painting made with my own blood, splashing it widely to reach wider, failing in recognizing or discovering anything in it, trying harder. and the wider it gets the more it feels bloody painfull. and the more it fails. i'm not reaching anything and i'm bleeding to death. En tout cas it's nothing of a mémoire. it's not even beautifull, it's not even myself.

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