Between the pages of a book I'm not afraid. Lying on the bed in my room, while the darkness wraps around the rest of the house, I wrap it in soft caress paper lulled by the rhythm of writing. There is nothing outside of history. No other matters that are included in the writer's imagination. And I myself became a tree, a dead branch, an abandoned car at the bottom of the landscapes and the pen imprinted on white sheets. And I could read forever. Forget to live. Why not a book betrays and responds perfectly to all my desires drawing the exact profile of the world that I want. Of life that I want.
I grew up having a friend to the little prince of a fairy tale, in my solitude as a child. And I still can not believe in any reality is not included in the books I've read. Why do you call the real world scares me. And I do not ppartengo away. No point in my efforts to believe otherwise.
And I know that I have no life except in the middle of a story. E Ink and cellular respiration. And I eat cardboard and twine binding. I move in a world of words, immersed in the writing as a charity in the primordial soup that surrounds me. How wrapped in a warm womb. Why I am a book. And I shed a thousand tears, I lived a thousand lives, I have seen thousand loves.
