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Almost too late is the feverish fear of the imminent loss of being loved: My grandparents. Like a tightrope walker I pitch on the wire of time to suppose, imagine, cry a future. It is this old age, slightly visible, that slowly grows scary. Their little gestures slowed down, their hesitant approach reminds me that the countdown has begun. How to be reassured by the anticipated traces of the disaster to come? I try absurdly to fill a future void.
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