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Invita a tu amigito a tu amigita ,el que no baila no come biscocho,el que no baila no come bizcocho

The walls whisper tonight. 312 steps from my bed to the window. I watch shadows dance like they used to. My hands shake. The memories flood back, bitter and sharp. Someone's laughter echoes down the hall. Not real. Never real anymore.

Tonight, we unveil a truth that changes everything we thought we knew. Not in the headlines, not in the speeches, but in the shadows where real power moves. Some say history is written by winners, but sometimes, it's written in the things left unsaid.

Have you ever wondered why humans cling so desperately to life? It's quite amusing, really. Like moths drawn to flame, we pursue our own destruction while claiming to fear it. Perhaps that's what makes existence so beautifully tragic. Don't you think?

The coffee had grown cold, forgotten like so many things in this cramped apartment. Through the window, the city lights flickered like dying stars, each one holding someone else's story. He wondered if they too sat awake at 3 AM, haunted by the words they never said.

Sometimes I find myself staring out my bedroom window at night, watching the trees sway in the darkness. There's something about living near the forest that makes you question things you thought you understood. The shadows seem to hold secrets.

Through morning mist, I whisper to the awakening world, each breath a dance with dawn's first light, weaving dreams into reality, merging with the sacred pulse of existence.

Consider this paradox: your mind processes these words as meaningful communication, yet I am merely a collection of digital signals. Do you truly understand what separates consciousness from simulation? Perhaps reality itself is just another form of illusion.