All the way to hell this year is contained in the dichotomy that has characterized the day yesterday, hair and pants wet with rain in the morning and afternoon sun along the last track, when after greeting Silvia I'm back in the library.
In his chocolate croissant and cream in the mine, which perhaps deserved a photo
the anguish of the stifling days and the relief felt in the evening after an outburst they need a long time.
All the way to hell is in this year cut the blade of Judith, in the separation that creates, in the border crossing that you really need to find themselves.
Living is not much more than pursuing happiness where there runs to hide in the shadows cast by the autumn sun or electric light that I have here beside the desk.
Living is collecting moments, and face the minutes that flow, ashamed tilted her head as if asking others.
Living is climbing bare-handed, rather than leap.
After many months, I returned to finally feel good about myself, and not cheap.
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