i construct something missing in you as well as in me
the stream of life by clarice lispector
i don't know what i am writing about: i'm obscure even to myself. i transmit to you not a message of ideas but rather an instinctive voluptuousness of what is hidden in nature and that i sense. and this is a feast of words. i write in signs that are more gesture than voice...i remake myself in these lines...this is an exercise in life without planning. the world has no visible order, and i have only the order of my breathing. i let myself happen.
the stream of life by clarice lispector
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