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2.9.09

Embalmed


O arroz serve-se frio. A mesa inclina-se sobre a minha boca. Um gesto de espanto (ou a dor) estremece o meu intestino. O ídolo mantém-se nos pés de ouro, revela-se no barro do coração.

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posted by Girolamo Savonarola at 11:16 da manhã