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As anything else ever distracted his eyes from his own reflection on the waters, nothing else would ever flatter his ears as his own reasons, with which, pretending that he ever spoke about something else, he just did about himself.
No one, on the other hand, ever diserved the favour of his voice but his own ears, to whom he always had a handful of words and reasons and more words and explanations about almost anything.
He surely left everything aside. Each and every wonder the world handled to him, he discarded it and silently let it flow through his life, as himself now, stars flooding his eyes, on the stream, towards the sea.
Rest in peace, Narcissus, against my will
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