It was October, the four to be precise, they do three years at midnight round round ... I write about this nonsense blogghino.
I would like to celebrate, but do not know how. I'm here with my fingers and I do not have anything decent. Shit, now that the time is up!
But it is always the last moment that you really feel the fragrance when the flower petals in the wind free, when the images are just around the corner, when a sound goes off in its echo. Why do I always find things after they have been living, that if I knew I would be a horrendous first envious that never gives the possibility for life to amaze me. And there's always surprises, sweet or bitter be.
undeniable fact is that dreams are made at night, but remember in the morning. And I know for sure I dreamed I had beautiful flowers between his fingers and beautiful images in his arms, while harmonious voices singing words of love. But this
live in perpetual separation from the past without too many illusions about the future.
with sincerity, this pain in the ass, peeping, and I pull my jacket.
Dilla all greengrocer!
What a bore that little voice, if only I was a bit 'deaf ignore it, it would be a good excuse, but it is so attached to my ears humming that I can not hear anything but her. Despotic, arrogant and conceited, he thinks to be always in the right because it has a way of presenting inaggirabile and incorruptible. I sometimes, when it is too fierce and ruthless, do anything to soothe her, dressed up, clothe, stains, that is stripped away and left bare to face, as does the more feminine women and I tremble with fear and desire to same time, because I never know what will happen the first comparison. But it is so beautiful that I must get involved, whatever the cost.
So, then, I look better, so in broad daylight, and I can see his shadow, his name is Truth. And it is particularly a shadow, who sometimes can not see, especially when, in an opalescent haze made of sighs, say you love, or I heard him say, honestly. How many times the light of day has also drawn sharp shadow, sharp as a razor, which covered those sweet words on a writing never pitch black.
Words, like tears buried raised, donated flowers as they fade, in a continuous play of light and shadow, of sincerity and truth.
And then what is the one and what is the other?
What the hell, a woman is more than enough already, they have me in two, the downfall is assured. Fortuna (alas !!!), here's a third "a woman are very much" and this wonderful statement as true allows me to accept my fate as a man, imperfect and in constant research, whose identity is inextricably linked to the comparison with that wonderful iridescent rainbow, enclosed in the most desirable bodies, in hopes of finding a human being. Sincerity and Truth
And play with my life. When I have arms like the other one and when I miss the other one. In nothing is the wisdom that I have, that if I threw it to the wind.
I keep the dreams lost in the heart, never scratched in their sincerity, I try to make new ones and let the shadow of the truth I just need to ink do not lie to myself.
Everything else is mere survival.
Happy Birthday my blogghino.
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