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Meconium, oh days, meconium is the blood of my shed time. Cotton has not worn the garment of mourning for its victims, and rice has not given off the smell of amber, and mosquitoes. Mosquitoes in the swamps have never spared naked bodies. They tell me to be patient, man. They are killing my days, my days that do not dream of much and that are prevented from being anything else. Other than a blessed corpse, they say to me: Be patient, man, those slaves
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