Ironed for making love

Do the signs of auspiciousness reveal themselves only after?

Can ritual initiate the needed state?

Does writing, as verb, tell as spectacle in your body, writer?

I awakened early. It was a soft and slightly rainy Wednesday, not very different from others in my life, but I treasure that Wednesday as a special day, one that belonged only to me. … I poured a cup of black coffee and sat down at the typewriter. I took a clean white piece of paper—like a sheet freshly ironed for making love—and rolled it into the carriage. Then I felt something odd, like a pleasant tickling in my bones, a breeze blowing through the network of veins beneath my skin. I believed that page had been waiting for me for more than twenty years…

Allende, I. 1987/1988 Eva Luna

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