I have to get out this door. My place is the hallway. No room for me no room. Every room has someone's stories, the ones I love, the ones I care for most.
I'm afraid of empty rooms, I can't write my own story. I'm always looking for other rooms in peace, as if some of them would make me happy.
Maybe he's right, my story is long, I don't need to rush. Or maybe my home is my story, my unfinished paragraphs are rooms in that house.
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