#south american lit

The eroticism inherent in living things is scattered through the air, in the sea, in the plants, in us, scattered in

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There’s something inside of me that hurts. Oh, how it hurts and how it screams for help. But tears aren’t there in the

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Where were you at night? No one knows. Don’t try to answer—for the love of God. I don’t want to know the answer.

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I hardly exist and if I do exist it’s with delicate care.

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What I write you has no beginning: it’s a continuation. From the words of this song, a song that’s mine and yours, there

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embracing your shadow in a dream my bones arched like flowers.

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beware the words (she said) they have a sharp edge they’ll cut your tongue off beware they’ll drown you

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Dear sirs, now of all times, when I had so much to say, I don’t know how to express myself. I’m a solemn and serious woman,

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At first we let the story carry us along and we think we recognise it, and for a while we even feel at home and walk

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Certain moments of my life I’ve lived twice: first, seeing them, and later on, writing them. Without a doubt I have lived

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