Me against the fire.
Alone, covered with rags, standing still.
Fighting the fire.
I might look ridiculous to you, strictly behind me.
So that I could listen your voice.
But not seeing your eyes.
Above all, avoiding you could see mine.
Me alone against fire, with one bucket of water, which in a few seconds will become one of the many empty containers in my difficult existence.
As the wallet, closet and drawers, as an imaginary bank account and the missing pages in my farewell to the global storytelling.
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