She liked to explore territories, literatures and arts. She gathered experiences that had left an imprint in her life and in her abode. She got to mistake her life for the objects from every corner of the world that decorated her walls, and for the ones that were product of her creativity that also hung on those walls. Some day I’ll turn all this into my autobiography, she said. But when she decided to start taking inventory the woodworm, which had been working silently for decades, had already eaten up paintings and masks and books. Nothing remained.

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