I'm tired of following and remembering my memories. They escape me. I would like to ask them where they're going to sleep to hook up with them later. Sometimes, to join them, I close my eyes, and then I drift away, into the magic lens I softly hide in this lost greenhouse where sleep feeds on melancholy. By a silent prayer, like dreamers do, then I fall asleep hoping that a fragment of memory will be reawakened from the forgotten past.

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