A man spends his days at home, immersed in his habits, staring at flies and napping. His dreams of revolution are long lost. Time melts his body, but not his memories. The only way to spend his days seems to be writing little poems and thinking about his past.
A man spends his days at home, immersed in his habits, staring at flies and napping. His dreams of revolution are long lost. Time melts his body, but not his memories. The only way to spend his days seems to be writing little poems and thinking about his past.
Francesco Morra
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