Poem from Rilke (1875-1926)

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“No one lives his life. Disguised since childhood, haphazardly assembled from voices and
fears and little pleasures, we come of age as masks. Our true face never speaks. Somewhere there must be storehouses where all these lives are laid away like suits of armor or old carriages or clothes hanging limply on the walls. Maybe all paths lead there, to the repository of unlived things.”

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