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Ioana Nicolaie

One of my eyes is blue, the other brown. I’m the fourth of the twelve children my mother had. When I was ten I wished I’d been an astronaut. At thirty-four I know that the upper part of the sky is not for people. Sometimes I tell to myself that history is that particular kind of dust out of which nobody can build anything. In order to remind myself of the thousands of years in which we learned too little about us. I walk forward into the labyrinth and through the wall I hold hands with my child. I cannot bestow on him that huge second which will hold us all together.

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