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Que diras-tu ce soir, pauvre âme solitaire

It is not as if I hadn’t seen it coming. It had approached me with a uniformly continuous pace, wearing its concolourous sheer dress adumbrating what was expecting me. It shouldn’t therefore have surprised me that, once again, it stepped in when I was distracted, as if I had been sidetracking and it had wanted me to come back to its road. Deep love walks unshod. I wonder if it knows about this sentence which almost has become an irrefutable theorem. But then again, it is hard to imagine it being interested in poetry.

So I sat about on the seat behind where it had found a quiet moment to think about how it was going to attack me, eyeing its disturbing reflection on the glass and looking at its two distinguishing marks, a little surreptitiously however, as it already made me feel unintimate and I desperately tried not to raise its suspicion – after all it might have resolved to attack earlier, which certainly would only have antedated the inevitable, but my sole goal at that moment was to postpone the terror, even if the horror was almost maddening.

All attempts to temporise were however futile, it silently bided until I had to stand up and leave only to rise with a gaze that was all but interpretable right in front of me. My heart decided it could forgo beating while my soul signed an abdication to my body, only so I could realise in a last breath that it was walking off. For a wonder a yawning void filled me, as if the only sense which had been in my life had been this single thing which I had been frantically trying to escape for all those years.

Could it really be that this ever-chaperoning reason of restraining my innermost self were the solitary feeling I could sense and of which I therefore was in an unconscious need insomuch that now that it has gone my subconsciousness is wailing?

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