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Moisture from the lips of a woman whose awakenings have always been attended by strange angels, awakening the performances of women in a large white cold room without floors. Dirty ships float between the sleeping icebergs in the fairy tales that overflow down her cheeks to her lips. The snow awakened and melted from her hips which simulate the coldest moonlight and its crevices. And what can awaken her now but the fragrance of the pines which long for her smell and her cold hair? At the end of a road of years upon which she lies down as one lies down forever.