you have no face and yet a priest's melody begs to accompany you. you are masked in leather; your former self a dead concubine. you are a created illusion of movement; you are his shadow show.
She weeps for all that she has wanted to be, for the words that run around inside her all day long but simply cannot fly, for the aeroplane that her paper wants to become.
The birthday girl weeps for her paper aeroplane. And at that very moment, she lifts up her pen. The birthday girl writes.
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