Sahara Slate Touch-it I215

Small handkerchiefs

Dear Francesco,

I do not know what language to write you then try the language of Molière, after all, is the language of the Enlightenment, to paraphrase another. Do you remember our first meeting? Was film. I was trying to make me a bun, hairpins stuck between my lips. The chair was a dirty color, that of an overripe raspberry, it was also the weakness, I could not resist slipping. The room smelled of sugar popcorn that littered the steps dotted with small blue bulbs. I heard a hook was your foot down just a little grain of corn. I watched you in the dark, your eyes were blue. It's crazy, especially for brown eyes like yours. The film unrolled his films and I felt your eyes on me that burned my neck. And then the movie ended, you were gone. Days and weeks passed, I saw you at the cafe, shopping mall, the florist and again at the cinema for a film in Peru. You have offered a cigarette, me a drink, and no one has ever separated. When you learn my name, you've repeated dozens of times looking at me, and in your mouth that does not sound like me. You drove the letters in your full lips, between your teeth and hissing a little apart, and no one ever shouted at me like that, like a poem all white. And now, like a souffle from the oven, everything falls, you forgot my name. And then your eyes in the dark no longer blue, it has picked up the popcorn. It's like you've never been there. Say I dreamed?

So what. I wait.

Signed Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle ...

November 6 What Happened To Fakku.net

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Cheaterskorean moviewatch Free

dream I speak We can not know me

I did not have enough money to take a taxi, so I asked my way, once, twice. In the end, I wandered a few hours in the blizzard that smelled of fish, before stopping, stomach shouting caffeine. Near the docks of Liverpool, I met a man who looked as if fascinated vessels sinners. It was pathetic with his childish eyes, a basket of chips lap. The tips of her fingers were red from the cold, barely heated by the warm, thin potatoes that led to his mouth, small mouth shaped o. Me, I was on the other hand, I waited my Ceylon, a Dumas on the table in faux marble. And then he got up, threw his empty tray and entered the cafe. Radio spent a Kinks song, I forget which. He ordered an Irish coffee and went to sit facing the bay. He watched the boats pass, and dockworkers cry, a thin smile stretched his lips chapped by the cold. He gnawed fingernails, ignoring the server who brought him his coffee. When I left, there was still unaffected. I walked past the trash docks, there was his little plastic tray. I looked around, I even looked at if it does not float on the wave of gray Mersey. No. Good. So maybe I invented it all, ultimately.

Welcome Message For The Groom

Address

I want to never be born, reborn still often when the rains break the stars of heaven forever. It's a beautiful agony as the man who wants to be, expressing all the will he can, talking to himself in secret his sweet artificial language ...

I once believed the soul, that which lies beyond the image of plastic and concrete under my skin is agitated, pulling the entrails of a whole generation during major depression in the world . I once believed in love, for a second when he got up from any his imposing figure, frail, sickly, so undermined ... And he told me! Love said:

"What am I? See what men have made me a moor full of putrid flesh and vanities!"

I cried for the Mozart Requiem. Love has played well for me. He said then he left, fled as the wind whistles in your ear or the omen the omen of the turn. Then I lifted my turn to him and cried because it was too far away to hear me whisper, whisper it, because it is a regular address to the Love and I shouted to the angel beat and I told Love:

"Look what you've done men! A forest of lost souls, wandering in hopeless maze that is the heart of the universe endowed with spirit! Love, Thou who slays the darkness of your infinite goodness, would not you also the one who went to bed one night at my bedside, harmless, for better hang myself when my weapon went mistrust? Love! Do you was what I drank my blood precious by ten, hundred, thousand times? Love is in my kind that I am sending you these words, Thou who art only fatalities, little deaths and immense despair, you, who we nausea scales up, we change yourself first, you better recognize! We were stupid enough to deceive us about your multiple accounts, but you've made the mistake we did not light up! "

And as it touched the howl of rage Love in its midst, he came by my window, looked at me and decided, anger deprive me of it all right to love and be loved. He invoked the strongest forces in which one can think here, then, profoundly shocked, he returned to other horizons.

Until that day in September, I had loved the truth. What can I tell if I like today? In any case, I I feel appreciated. And love it still sees offended because his grip on my heart is no longer - the butterflies fall, stiff as soon as they cross the boundaries of my will - I have overcome the Love! I do not like if I do say love.

And Love has only to wither again, I am sharing what I refuse his blessing as his futile passions.

Broken Capillaries Underneath The Eye

few words which, so far, me mysteriously banned

I Love You Phillip Morris

The following ranged on the table a vase flowers and wax candles, whose reflections dancing red and yellow and blue silk curtains at the bedside of the sick.

"Do you, Mariette, he will come? - Oh! Sleep, sleep a little, madam! - Yes, I sleep soon to dream about him all eternity. "They heard someone

upstairs. "Ah! if it was him! "Murmured the dying woman, smiling, butterfly tombs already on the lips.

was a little page who brought from the Queen to the Duchess, jams, biscuits and elixirs on a silver platter.

"Ah! it does not come, "she said in a faltering voice, he will not come! Marietta, give me one of those flowers that I breathe and kisses for his sake! "Then Madame de

Montbazon, closing his eyes, remained motionless. She died for love, making his soul in the scent of a hyacinth.

A. Bertrand , Gaspard de la Nuit