Now that the little cabotage of living is at a standstill, I called the hairdresser asking for time. And of the first ones. For feigning a habit rather than necessity. It is convenient to try a controlled ascent to go back to the world, like divers. For 51 days I wrote about being confined, relying on a hoarse game between disbelief and resignation. They were things that happened to me more inside than outside. And I would compost them later in paragraphs, helping my shipwreck to study

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