I never left my chair and the spectacle of the street offered to me through the large window where the curtain is torn and burned. I am of those who can not leave this place, because that's where we are relegated figurines, donkey skin, crazy, stored there and the Mandrake Missals worn by centuries. This is the place where husbands disappointed forget their wives, where children always return because they know they need to remember something, this is the place where yellowing photographs, within their chiseled gold, were hung on the wall because no one at the bottom, does not want to remember the Historically, this is the place where those who do not coiffent their hair waiting time passes, they put their hands in buckets of paint and draw on the walls and nightgowns that belong to another. Sometimes in the dust, we can find a pencil and that's where we begin to write. What has he spent in the head of the Son of Man, who decided to write the first thing other than a book of accounts?
Between that time and later I'm used to fly because I never works, especially not at this time, and I am surprised that I'm nailed to the chair with velvet, but since I do not bleed and my movements are free, I prefer to wait then wait, and then wait another hour and next hour, and then suddenly, a man comes to light the fire in the fireplace full of cobwebs because " he thinks I can be cold, I do not see her face and did not thank, because the fire, despite my tendencies arsonists, always gives me a headache is the forge of Vulcan and it's rhythm barbaric, but it takes courage and knowledge to stay abreast of all, stay awake. My jaw muscles are contracted and there is the reminder of this paper I was holding hands, a few months ago, when it was written that I always keep a certain stiffness and the words were true because I had signed at the bottom of the page. And the snow begins to fall outside and inside, I think there's a hole in the roof, everything freezes. And shade out the Canid and I know it and I am talking about, and every minute there is only silence, and every second, I have more and more cold and to this day I do not expect a word, a word, tell me. The head of the beast arises against my knee, a cry out of his throat, and I put my hand on his head and think I smile, because this contact is a memory of Joy.
Silence and Frost, we sit, each with the wound that we thought heal the gaping hole that is failure and it is a symbol, is this a good thing to have a heart so soft, always a blue if it draws a hand or cry comes to touch, would it be better to tear his chest and arms outstretched to offer one that hurts us because we do not know if we have the courage to next time, knowing there will be a next time. The beast groaned as she plunged her glance into the amber mine. A very soft sound like the rustling in the leaves in the breeze, as nostalgia and tenderness as well and others can yell out, I have her heart bare hands and laugh, and throwing color on the ground and the words in the fireplace, so never existed, I cling.
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