In the closed boxes with miles of files of people who had something to say outside the home and is now out of my head and sing out of sync. Out of the clouds October and eight in the evening and what ever saran all my mail that is not the answer. Dust off your iPod songs hidden in the deserts and alcohol with the money that it costs too much I hope to cenarci-eat-sleep.
You're not at home. Mia.
Whatever that means home.
Any home that means home.
Mia.
I'm not old enough to run and does not penetrate the lungs with breath spacious and ends on the sternum that I find it evil and furnished home, but of course you are invited to dance in, but me but me, except when you call and do not answer. When it's raining outside and I Wallpaper eardrums unleashing the usual charm and shawl.
then what to do with feelings of anaphylactic shock me?
graduate then, in everything.
the movies Back to the Future project and if only it were October 27, 1985 we will not even know which side of seal loose everywhere. Plural nous and have never been so bad.
and find the guts to tell me that with all my bad-me paranoia sfonderà the liver. I you and I and plurals to fuck, but just to grammaticare incorrect sentences.
When we took the plane then exploded in applause of the Italians and we wept because it was over but the stock of wine mignon that I had bought in double figures. Encrypted messages which even ask him.
E 'was a bloodbath and even then you will always remember.
When I speak you speak to me that the other can not write, illiterate as they are. The days that you marked on the calendar for your mestu are the days when I go out.
No Age.
No way.
Norway.
Matthew barro
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