I have been to an island, as pure and beautiful as the Italian island, sparsely populated. Being in it, all the happiness and throbbing are magnified countless times, wrapping the heart of the deer.
Listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the reef is one of the most precious treasures that nature has bestowed on this place.
Mario held all the goodness carefully, longing for Neruda to look back. Even the crystallization of a woman he loves bears Neruda's stamp. He is selfish and paranoid, women are ultimately only romantic appendages to his poetry, and only Neruda is his love.
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