Mirror prisoner
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I tried to realize oblivion the magic little boxes locked inside us. Those boxes that contain all our memories, sweet and bitter, old and new, no matter how much we seem to forget them, remain buried in our depths, engraved in the smallest details, in the heart of the well-locked box, and these are not keys in our hands, but rather its keys flying around us somewhere without us feeling them. The key may be the key of a song, which we hear by chance, opens the box of memories, does not take us to the past, but rather brings the past in its details, where in its details. The key could be a perfume, reminding us of a place, reminding us of the owners of the fragrance and the time of their presence, their scents invade us, their voices surround us, and then soon we find them in front of us taking the shortest path from the old edition to the capital of the present. The memory may be opened because of a certain temperature, which the body senses with the change of the year. When it knocks, our bodies begin to search for those who feel warm. The boxes may turn into their boxes, where there is a place in familiar places, nothing has changed, everything is present, except time and the people who were no longer present.
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