Why not talk to me, I feel alone. Not much else around, no more than a naked body, nothing. The old oleander
tried in vain comfort in cars lapping the square.
They had left there after choosing not to kill him, had inflicted cuts on which some insect thin little wrote respectfully his name. Is not it nice
a naked man, no can not. The cold forced him to cough and a bad song forced him to stand still, still a little '.
The writer wanted a child, he would have wanted to square up and. Two powerful shoulders, two shoulders of a swimmer's hands and virtuoso pianist. He would have liked, the writer, a daughter silent. Would not have drawn neither eyes nor your toes.
Tell me how old you are, you and me from those. Sitting on a sofa in orange velvet caressing phrases trivial, would be like that for hours trying to figure out something. The black bicycle leaning against the cabinet listened sly. If the kiss on the cheek, he thought. If the kiss on the cheek and lips ruin everything. Bigger than a few months, yet it seems as dry as possible to the last autumn of the world. If I told you what I think, perhaps, do well. Stop this futile imbrazzo, serve the cake without candles, and no one will be missed. The kiss. Not shaken, nor chose to turn around. He smiled and continued talking unnecessarily far away, but rather because he could disappear at the first bad song sung by seagulls.
I wanted a child, I wanted the sweet and strong. The shortness of breath, the belly of a glossy teen guitar, two broken knees. I wanted a daughter, a daughter burned, I would have looked demure with grass cover scars, I'd left lying in the sun to dry for days.
I remember the gun. Then he started laughing. Seven Samurai. Who would have thought.
Western
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