the beds covered with black usually die. Memento mori. You just made the bed that would be a shame to die there. Calm
I move over the duvet to maintain the bed burial. Smoke more cigarettes than are going out and spreading here and here and here and here
laquae and the here and the
.
Shots sniffed the silence. I pull up the morale and I pull up his pants. Your black skirt, high waist, but I want to lower it not time that it rains outside. Milan.
not write more, you say.
'm not a writer, I say.
line of sheets and your facial features. Color as you're not. The white walls as your face. Black 50 years of our sentimental.
I bought paper for the typewriter.
With the ink of your eyes the reload.
Shakespeare told us so much and now there remains but the silences. The leaves that rise slightly when you raise the autumn. The pre-winter of ourselves.
With the novels I could "make a fire burned to vent, to bad luck.
My love that you're gone, the years pass.
You look at me and You and You look at me look at me. I can not say anything now that I no longer write.
They end the day and the colors for the outlines and everything has a sense of shading that everything seems to be your cigarettes. Like when a child were to rise on the roof home to see the horizon behind the factories. Greeting dad went out. Your mouth contour
: I'm listening.
When we realized that everything was really over and the curtain came down a mighty storm that you ran to close the window of our future. You've been in some way helpful.
We were in some way, premature.
Now the battle. I despair and
.
Text: Mattia Barro
Pics: Chiara Esposito
