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28 September 2016

All texts by Julio Cortazar.

There’d not been any words, not even a vision; something between the two, an image decomposed into many words like dry leaves on the ground.

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He felt a sort-of hateful tenderness, something so contradictory that it must have been truth itself.
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(The wind was blowing their words away and they were speaking in a low murmur)
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But it’s not true, how can he hurt her by hanging on her words.

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