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Often only that: flowers on the wallpaper to to talk to, the canary to listen to. And for the rest: meditate and learn not to dream of her children who do not come again.
Sometimes, just in the morning, she sings like a bird she is sixteen, carefree reaches for invisible butterflies in the room. She lovingly embraces the kissing like her first doll, giggling in the mirror.
In the evening she undresses early for the night and wait. For crickets that will then rage in her ear. Scared as a child, she crawls under the sheet. There even death cannot touch her anymore.