Notwithstanding my deficient writing in a foreign language, I keep coming here. English words are music to me. Its sounds take me to a magical and smooth land where things are cozier and prettier. It is a nameless place full of new dreams, new hopes, new wishes, new thoughts and new fragrances, like the smell of white pepper on my old Irish turtleneck. It is a land full of creeks, forests and green fairies. When I am here, I sleep on fresh fields covered with moss and moist leaves, on soft and shiny fields like the velvet on a deer. When I am here, gleaming stars wink at me. At dusk, when light is dim, I am shrouded in mist, but I never feel cold, never feel lonely; I am surrounded by love, poetry and unspeakable joy. English entices me and I have no choice but resting in this wizard region where words whistle. I am so afraid to break the spell that I keep coming here.


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