Quarta, 05 Dezembro 2007 @ 02:09
Nothing suffers erosion in me all of my life images keep their contours and colours there is no prospect in my memories today, yesterday, once all comers is a bit like these antique paintings or seen anything Persian only stains.Later at the end of day, I love to hold me in a dark room a woman dreams of a complacent that had neither name nor form dusk residents, tormented reflections, tumults: wrong night yellowish whose waves caress a body long and gentle as an island moved to hear