‘Oh what sadness. What can you possibly do. Seated at the edge of the bed, blinking in resignation. How well you could see the moon on these summer nights. She leaned forward ever so slightly, indifferent, resigned. The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding… Up high, up high. The moon. Then the profanity exploded from her in a sudden fit of love: bitch, she said laughing.’

– Clarice Lispector, Daydream and Drunkenness of a Young Lady

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