There's a woman. She writes. She likes the cube, and Africa. And the North, too, what an opposition. Winter is her time, but she's waiting for spring. She likes to wonder at the rainy, severe rocky scenery, especially laying in the hot sand, feet towards the sea. Well: she neither can find her place, nor her time, so, for the time being, she waits at the continental climate. And sometimes, to be sure, she fears without any reason. Alas, she's an incorrigible pessimist. Alas, her sense of justice is overdeveloped. Alas, she doesn't give a second chance. She isn't a good person. She isn't a bad person. She's a human being, simply like that. She got herself this virtual place, because she needed a panic room. Where she can hide, but where she can be available for those who want to find her. She fills the shelves of her panic room with things she could need in miserable times. More or less sensible, anyway self-identical thoughts. Routes to reach valuable people. Pictures, songs. Others can come in here to calm down, and there will always be a place for those who are a bit afraid sometimes, just like her.
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