The truest flight is the one without wings, I tell you, that crosses time with sharp blows of white frullana and, there is no sun that melts the glossy, hard wax of desires. Time does not exist, a complicated invention of endless nostalgia: neither shape nor sound nor colour, smell nor taste. Nor touch! Nothing, indeed, just wasted time thinking about time. Our stories are real and can be touched, they vibrate alive more than he who is not there. They, they fly high.
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