Scene Aim Names Ellie

other people's conversations.

First, in the beginning, I wrote poems about me for me. Absolutely. Then something arrived - a man, perhaps? A sliver, a dream? - Something we do not bring anything, but took everything. So stop writing comoantes - comoestabaacostumbradaa , do not leave itself: was lost. My words hurt me, they are wound. My tongue has been hooked on the electrified barbed wire of Auschwitz and every time I carried out the action of the poem itself, shake and spit blood.

Milenavelbaandmiosotis

When air announces rain, has an aroma,

even a taste, exquisite.

Fatigue Nausea Headaches In Evening

a chasm, which is a mirror.

Read for the first time a book by Alessandro Baricco, who always has clouded as an artist and human being - first read at the nearly twenty years, a book as mare Oceano is one of the pains I have felt happier. Not reading is a mourn (se) per line. Even the punctuation marks are withering.

Fascination. It is something like this: Fascination. Es

Printing; truth.

This thing cliché Search Inside! And this other thing bloody: the belly of the sea.

I keep fragment or promise, because it is an unbreakable whole. Is that a fear. Find a fear-of-,-in one-,-to one. (Before Oaceano Mare, it is necessary Silk or Silk or Noveccento Noveccento .. must be this: slowly coming to the sublime.)