Prelude

Cerce Trova.

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Abhijnāna

I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't want them, so I take them back and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists.

Pain

Pain is what we carry upon our shoulders, love is being silent about the weight.

Insomnia

I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.