Poetry
I was beginning to feel desperate not so much because I had practically been locked up in a room for a week, but because I sensed that a big disappointment was waiting for me by now.
It all started in Cortina. I was still shaking the snow off my boots when my mother said to me: "Adriana, you must excuse me..." I looked at her astonished: I excuse my mother, this was something new and incredible. "Come inside, I'll explain now." and, another incredible thing, she looked embarrassed.
As soon as she sat in the small living room with wooden walls: "I've been watching you for a while." she began to say. "This constant typing for hours worries me..."
"But mom!" I interrupted her. "You know I'm collecting, copying my poems and then binding them and it takes time because when I make a mistake I have to start over, in a bound volume there can be no corrections; there is nothing to be done, it takes some time."
"That's not what worries me: I'm worried about your patience, the commitment you put into it."
"But you know, I like it." I said. I didn't understand the problem.
"I can see that you like it. But it's not normal for...
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