‘It is curious that I can’t say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can’t say it… I feel who I am and the impression is lodged in the highest part of my brain, on my lips (especially on my tongue), on the surface of my arms and also running through me, deep inside my body, but where, exactly where, I can’t say. The taste is grey, slightly reddish, a bit bluish in the old parts, and it moves like gelatin, sluggishly. Sometimes it becomes sharp and wounds me, colliding with me.’

– Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

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