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«Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.» –  (Julius Caesar, 1.2.146), Cassius to Brutus

When we look around us and meditate about ourselves we realize how much life can be deceptive. Our lives are played in a (God or virtual)-given background that seems like a blank page, a white sheet. But that possibly doesn’t matter…provide we savor the sweetness of the All. There are the minimum ornaments, the rest is upon us. That’s why literature is not about reality; it creates a new reality. A new reality where we can live in. After reading a poem, which is not about reality, at the end we have our lives and, in addition, a new poem.

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