Volleyballcameltoe Woman

Pierrot waving his arms and his arms are wings. How to forget that the sleeves are the birds that rise into the air one who always picking his nose in the air? Exercise is ridiculous, it's a sabotage, self-collision. It
Pierrot Pierrot goes and comes back, is that Pierrot has closed his book, half angry, half amused, because he knows that everything has been said and it will not add much, and then it amuses a little background, because he looked around and realized that nothing could be better than this book. He laughs, because he still saw something on the street who did smile, and wondered what could be the life of this man walking so fast, the Devil at his heels may be the man who walks quickly and mop up in battle, it made him laugh because those at make you laugh at the same time they surprised. The melancholy fell on him suddenly, past the girl who was crying on a doorstep of a neighborhood he knows well: he has never seen anyone cry on. Music in his ears and his heart was well suited to tears, it has already exceeded the girl he wants to go back and talk to him, but he started in his place and continued his way, because it would put a bullet in the head of one who would come to bother, if it had been had he been in his place in it. Pierrot
remembers the book and wondered if it was his second skin, and whether to save him from himself, and quietly take the knife cut the skin incision and then remove. Incision and then remove. It would then be in blood but he never wrote anything better, not that the best is what he seeks, since he knows not the meaning, but he knew what to bleed and then it should be so bad. Pierrot wrote like that, because he can not do much, it is poor cook, and poor lover, and all poor, but he knows how to hold the pen between his fingers and that's not bad, it does not know his own strength, if he was safe one day and then he cares, he trusted his luck up there, which he wrote yesterday to tell him to make a wish. He writes with no notion of good and bad, he does not believe that those words might do good to one who reads them, he always thought that most novels were letters that the authors wrote to each other on their same. Sometimes it is to find the fault, and for the plug, if possible, this small loophole that still bleeds. And it bleeds, it bleeds and then the author still searching, groping, found the flaw, this small wound to heal, if possible, to live with otherwise. Sometimes it's pain to vomit. The rest? He does not know, he has no fixed ideas. One day he thinks this and the next day he thinks that, the day he is stunned by what he wrote in the evening, he wants it at night to tear it all over again. More often than another, he hesitates, he thinks, be reassured, and then hesitates, but there is this thing so it's safe and it is a little happier.
Pierrot can become a book, may this aged skin by excessive anxiety and be the parchment of his life, his little piece of life not much, can, especially Pierrot out of this skin that bothers him that disconnects at the slightest thought, reduced vision. Longer need this jacket that makes him lose his time!
Pierrot and Pierrot wrote insists he knows that after a few hours, it does not mean nothing, but hey! this is the material of which it is made. Still too and it will cut, his eye always returns to this knife is made of silver, silver to kill the werewolf that is in him. Think about the running man and the young girl crying, they have that something What passengers in stations. Pierrot would live a thousand lives, but God told him long ago he would have one. Not that God is stingy, but each in turn, seats are numbered and that he lives is already well underway. Pierrot is still waving his arms, his sleeves. It is to find and steal a diamond, "he said, is to have the sensation of living when all benumbed. And it makes you want to live, even if the danger is near. And laugh, even if the horror is not far. The comedy is not over.