𝕋ℍ𝔼 π•Šπ•‹β„π”Όπ”Όπ•‹

It’s a long and silent street.

I walk in the dark and trip and fall

and get up and step blindly

on the mute stones and dry leaves

and someone behind me is also walking:

if I stop, he stops;

if I run, he runs. I turn around: no one.

Everything is black, there is no exit,

and I turn and turn corners

that always lead to the street

where no one waits for me, no one follows,

where I follow a man who trips

and gets up and says when he sees me: no one.

𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖, β„™π”Έβ„π”Όπ”»π”Όπ•Œπ•

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