"A great sentence is like a cry of worldly."
LEON PAUL FARGUE
Autumn winter, spring and summer will never go even further than their noses.
Fortunately, the dawn has this fighting spirit that makes me regret ever be.
way, I gave up my spirits and breaking all my little dead sexual circumstances leaving the task of locking them in a drawer, struggling with their doubts.
Brain lightly used, price negotiable depending on options.
The physical atlas of my body is dotted with black spots and the best laundry will not help, I'm getting old. I die of old.
disease, when? Impotence, when?
I remember always suffered from my youth. Why others, I thought, do not feel sorry about my fate?
I was my only king and courtiers had not.
I think I never loved anyone and that is the only quality that I recognize.
I was born in fear of controversy, the debate that always forces me to flee. My reason was telling me that the nest of attachment, no future space known as comfort, I would lose all control.
attach and submit.
So I scheduled my disqualification as a cover. Masterfully I built my perfect happiness.
The remedy against love.
Masochism turf wars.
dreams against all forms of projects.
Rationalism forgotten.
pasty mouth, the sleeping child and the first glimmerings of the night a comedian, male-female dog, mirror ... desert most of timidity is pride.
Pride the foot is swollen, sarabande in its folds, overcome fatigue in his grave evils, fatal narrowing of the imagination.
This cry, heard a thousand times, thousand times appeared to voice a thousand times and killed half gone.
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