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To which I so much wanted to leave memories

You, as I touched, I felt I touched
What, that I blessed

You, which has absorbed the smell in my soul Who
voice brightens my flame Thou

for which I am sorry that I had to leave
To whom I so much wanted to leave memories
you remember from my hand caressing your hair
you remember from my lips that rested on your skin with a sweet gesture that

You heard your cry I cried
you who invaded my thoughts for months
Thee I wanted to see grow
With that I saw share stories
stories, tears and laughter especially

I saw my life flash
And I thought of you I felt my
be flying
I dreamed only of you
Would you forgive me this I did not want
Would you be able to imagine all that life has chosen

My issue, my carelessness, my body
My life, my reason, my soul, my

wrong Do not think I
abandon you all the time I'd close
Do not think I disappear
I would never succeed because
to forget now in the afterlife
Will there than you to invade my thoughts

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Who goes there? Ephemeral Dreams

guess never lived. Or rather if, ultimately, I lived a few things. Few insignificant. But what do they know?

These reports out of phase arises only emptiness, nothing, paintings abundant terror, apprehension, and inertia. Emerging needs that remain unmet few having been able to meet earlier or, failing that, too advanced for our meetings. No, these are not meetings, these are shocks. Species clashes unfit and dithering abstract concepts that do not know anything. It gets caught, then the passions suspended tire. But we promised, and sacrifice, I knew him.

Do not get me wrong, you who fly in space parachute variegated periwinkle and swallows, never confuses. Do you know what is the disembodiment? I think I scraped my wings sufficiently before the sin of worldliness is m'exige redemption. It seems to me - in memory over time is becoming more widespread - one day having cleared a lifetime, preferring an unstable future as uncertain. Love, though we should say, is only a pretext. I do not love you, you do not love, we love. To be taken in the right direction, obviously. And also, I said several After several days, weeks, months that I loved her. Do you know? Who goes there?

Was it me? Surely. Was it him? In-doubt. Just can not know the communion that one who lived alone. It is my pain, my yoke, the death knell of defeat and shame, the separation of soul and body, one neglected, abandoned, forgotten, hung with pictures, bits of architecture, gardens, crops , eclectic, customs, activities, symbols of the past, the other vagabonds mutilation in contortions of the afflicted incomplete conditional dark, vile, dumb and dangerous. You know, you pretend that, you realize only the magnitude of such a being divided?

It would certainly have some leanings little expected. He'll hold you in the second when he falls in love next. However, it is good that you know. That the world will shine if you suffered unconsciously; give intelligible signs, and if you do succeed, hidden them. With time, patience, mother of virtues, the overdose of a Los Angeles fleeting disrepair, prey to disillusionment anamorphic, while the world stage convetionnelle you will be revealed. Take our time. No commitment, no act, no contract other than to intimate the wire that potentially binds us. What do I know? Who am I? Who goes there?

I'm not the one I was. I do not know what I know nothing. I fall into the abyss as you sow, and dread came over me at the slightest sparkle. N'extrapolerais thou not thinking about them as you please? Do not make me say what I never said, do you? Children are irrelevant because of their innocence. But a child who has lost that innocence is simply a monstrous adult - for her entourage, and especially for himself. If this idea excites you, either. I scarified my life in my veins supporting the tragic cry of an adult-child knows that this is not what I want, away from me this will-is a sacred romance. I do love you maybe not, who knows? Who goes there?

Yes, that bright?

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you wore to your lips chapped quite the rim of a glass half empty green liquor. Time thee a little faded, many tests. You were more children than you had once lived, and those of others does make you feel neither pain nor hatred. In your other hand lay a cigarette long, smoky, gray by the tenderness past.

You said you were a woman now, "I was once Rapunzel", and men almost t'écoeuraient. You waltzed in bare arms, each ball a little faster, the enthusiasm carries you off, but have you ever felt happy? Shivering with cold brushed against your skin in all plots. As you had changed, they were so deserted ...

You were much more beautiful when in contreplongée from above are watching you. The prime thee gone wrong, your eyes once so shiny exhorted sweaty and sweet breath, as a curiosity not always see in films and novels of test station. No one in your story so insignificant great lady of the world, not thee one day, one hour, one minute, a fleeting moment and elusive, no one asked you who you were. You knew that you loved smoking. You coitus acommuniante some anamorphic.

Maybe you blot you out on the same breast that saw your birth. Who knows? What a woman feels, the love of a man hugging, a flash can upset the universe. When a man feels, the jealous delusions of women contracted, even one is determinism? Or that we maintain. I love you.

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March 8, and then?

March 8 coincides with the international day of women's rights, since I do not know how long. This day is intended as a tribute to the woman's rights, achievements, she wants to highlight the conditions of disadvantaged women in the world, the importance of the fight against violence against women and inequality rights ...

I did noticed the existence of this festival as during my stay in Italy. The women were in that day a girls' night, excluding

guys or inviting facilitators for specific numbers of very special and also received greetings and flowers. These European clamoring feminism and their benefit to show the degree of their emancipation.

home I'm aware of the existence of that day through a few articles to the newspapers who praised the gains made by Tunisian women on all levels that may exist, then the evening paper highlighting portraits of successful women in their lives. Home, the woman is emancipated because she works, but the woman is always the one who takes care of the household, leaving the male sex sit down in coffee shops. Children's success is dependent on the efforts of the wife, if children do spend a good curriculum is mainly due to the mother who does not care much. The woman has no right to accompany her to their own graves, the woman always hear and so far the word "3IB" (it does not) you're a woman!

Among neighbors, neighbors, language, religion, and a lot of cultural aspects, too, is saddened at the birth of a woman who knows what will make this burden, it must be quickly away, the woman is a liability, the ideal would be to marry. The woman can decide alone, the woman is weak, the woman must be covered from head to toe in black preferably, women and girls are abused, to educate them because it is allowed and then ...

Under other skies, and going even further towards the south, the woman does not even know what day it would be Monday, March 8, she is illiterate because it must deal with daily tasks and leave the privilege of getting to his brother, knows not to use a weapon in wars caused mainly by men and the one who directly harvest the fruits of their foolishness.

This holiday reminds me that above all on the same land, there is a huge gap between me, my northern neighbor, the one that wants to be my equal and my neighbor to the south. To whom is it really for?

For those who play it, which amused? for those who remained in the mid-wide? for those who suffered his fate and believes there is not really a choice? or the other who survived without knowing what it hides its aftermath.

Equality you say? Yes, no, maybe, why

and I've got to pass my way.