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I strolled along that large corridor whose walls were decorated with portraits: trophies of your love games.  You fed on those loves, didn’t you? You overextended. Overextension kills empires. I bet you didn’t think that it could kill real love too.

Every night the fleshless arms of your love games crawl on you like fire ants.

I know misfortune when I see it.

I know it because I am not a saint.

Hope? If there is any left it must be on another corridor.

Follow me.

read my 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

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