by notables from elsewhere and have no power. This is a good place to hide. What I say is true and always get wrong. The snow melts and too many pedestrians take the path beside my house. It is a border of paper, but, these days, these lies want to become sincere confidences. It is not yet bristling, and already we try to go around. It comes to see the ruins of ancient fortifications, but the tracks coming. These premises are distressing. Do not stay here, I'll be in the cohort of refugees, driven out by saws invisible, attracting a crowd of curious here.
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