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Dear xx,
There are only a handful of things that I find worth liking about the person that I am. And to add to that, the large majority of characteristics and circumstances that attend my existence I did not choose for myself: The failings of character, the general shortcomings, the memories that weather all attempts at erasure, the sadnesses, etched as if into stone, the ways, innumerable and indescribable, that I have hurt people who have entrusted my inept hands with themselves. Even the place and time. Of all things, the place and the time. I know that I am not alone in this.
When we meet, perhaps we can agree to be new people. Perhaps we can say to each other, “I am new.” Perhaps, for whatever time it is that we have together, we can remember what it is like to live without the weight of time on our bones and the blemishes of experience our skin. Wouldn’t it be nice? To live, for just a moment, recklessly and without apology?
Please reply. Here is the echo. Please reply.

(Todos los créditos por este texto hermoso a Charles Warnke. Yo solamente me estoy expresando, una vez más, a través de alguien con más talento para dicha tarea que mi persona).

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