the first page is spoiled by my hand with the pen never be new again brought from its country of white elevations and white plains into my scribbled life do I have the courage to treat it as my brother to feed its loneliness with mine my words broke and my spirit spilled out the page will always have its serenity on which my excitement is drawn it offers a bed for my restless hand it is a place where no demands apply it is a way of being loved without fear
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