You and me and everyone we know.

The Lovers (1963) by Remedios Varo

“This is the best thing I will ever write,” I tell myself often. “ I’d better enjoy this, because I’ll never write anything this good again.”

Who fed me the sensation that the world is decaying before my eyes, that time is always running out, that nothing improves or evolves or transforms into something new? Why does eve…

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