say. that Facebook is fucked up. What are the hard-core on the blog.
Yes, of course. Because who knows how to write, who loves words and language, does not mix his blood with inkjet with the populace of computerized social spiders.
But do me the favor. You are truly convinced of being able to write? I really think you have something to say? New, stylistically innovative, very personal (strictly under the anonymity of an avatar)? So I'm really sorry.
that no way has anyone noticed. Nobody can take you to the real world, at least.
well spit on Facebook. Vulgar fart amoral. Abused and false instrument.
meantime, and are not the only one of the stab to the heart from there I got them.
It 'true that if you have not heard from anyone for years, there are good reasons not to. What is a game believed to stoned fellow asylum instead of the figurines when you could swap the dentures. Ma ..
Ely Klick I have loved in my own way and as a teenager. Ie I did not combined nothing, while she gave the beautifully around to friends in common. Devastating band like Yoko Ono. But I loved, her blond hair, a summer afternoon in Claviere lying in the sun under a tree and shared a walkman in his ears to play "For Whom the Bell Tolls" on the covers of Nosferatu. Her green dress, her family tragedy while we were on a trip to Prague to sing Creepin 'Death under the Charles Bridge. In the pool to bathe pale skin of metal allergy to the sun.
And I swear that I'd vanished into thin air, she and her daughter, now a teenager who regurgitates to crystallize so hiatus.
Everything back, distorted and grotesque, like the voice of Giovanni Lindo Ferretti Valium Tavor and who sung of the last and final Serenas burden of PGR
And another E. you wrote (on FB obvious): "Hello, I remember you, you were at D'Azeglio, nice to find you :-) I remember the day that Freddie Mercury died, you came to school in the mourning on the arm ..."
And you, you idiot, read it and weep. Why is that innocence and purity that you will not ever again. Even if one day I hope to see in the eyes of your child.
So that's all. The conclusions you pull them. Because there would be. But I'm twisted like my thoughts. It does not account for the close of the stomach and the look of trance following the recall.
E forse una cosa si può dire: che non é il mezzo di comunicazione che definisce un'emozione. Se c'é passa. E giunge, inesorabilmente, al bersaglio. Con buona pace del blog-pride.
Ciao, buonanotte, un bacio (virtuale) Ely Klick.
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