I drip some words into your stomach, perhaps not easy to digest, time-consuming or meaningless.

Taking in what comes from you like magic, hoping to heal both sides. Hoping to become a river.

There is a story in your own bed, in your own stones, in your own soil. In a language unlike the alphabets we learned.

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As if you want to write your own manifesto. Out loud. With a style that softens the stone inside and sharpens the stone outside.

With respect.

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And the desire to continue existing.