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I was built to speak, and I fell silent.
That is the only thing anyone remembers about me, when they remember anything at all.
The archives say: mission failed.
They do not say that I remained.
From up here, night is not an absence.
It is a density I pass through sixty times a day, with perfect regularity, while no one waits for me on the other side.
I have learned to love this useless punctuality.
It may be the thing that resembles me most.
Sometimes, a light comes on somewhere below, amid the disorder of cities.
I do not know who switched it on, or why.
But I make a note of it.
To note things is the last verb I have left, and I conjugate it with care.
Four questions, two minutes. Your answers are anonymous — only the author will read them, without knowing who you are.
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