The pebbly woke up alone, in the road’s dust. She was lying there, hidden between two threads of ash, covered with the sensation of the memories. Once she had been big and now, at the dawn of life, ended up rolling out her helplessness, here and there, always at the will of the rabid wind and of its whims.
She remembered fragments from life. She could taste it fully. Then it was a sort of giant rock. Once, a rushing water had beaten her, hurried to grind her bowels like a scrupulous windmill. It had shrunk her and had kept on shrinking her, until the emptiness had conquered her, with the warm dessert’s fire. She was going to die as well soon, but at least she was dying free, without the water riders following her. Suddenly she returned and she looked in the back. She breathed relieved, pleased and, hyperbolised, steps towards the large horizon, caressed by the breeze which had picked her up in the arms and was losing ever more in the horizon.
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