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That evening Mammarosa's face was very close, like blogging always when she whispers. She whispered things in my ear which I did not catch but it concerned going to sleep and stupid people and--again-- sleep tight. Sleepsleep. Frog wallpaper. I like her face best when it is close to mine--so big, so broad: as if I see her in a carnival mirror, one which doesn't disfigure, one that makes me laugh due to her... blogging due blogging to her beauty. Mammarosa's beauty when her breath fans out over my face, when I see her eyes move, from my eyes to my forehead, from my cheeks to my chin, from my lower lip to my eyes little eyes. Sleep. Take care that you do not fall asleep with your mother's face still swaying in your memory: dreams about fathers and mothers generally turn into nightmares and when, for instance, you dream that your mother has warts on her face and that from these warts all runs a pisslike fluid and the bells at that moment ring twelve midnight bang, then the dream will drip from your mind straight into real life.
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