I try to be a sniper's no excuse, it seems. It is not future project. One is left. Spend as with drugs, one of the test and then left. As with plastic bags in the centrifuge of the waves. The problem is the clothes on a sun that looks excessive. Two hips as fourteen eight thousand. And yet the city is not just convinced me, really. Not for nothing. I just do not see. You might for a season. To visit my in-laws. But I can not imagine birthday. And the sea is overrated. It is true that evades, but does not pay. And even less if we do not board, even though the moon looks upon him as a sticker on the body of a luxury car, a white pamela a parade of black, and that the lights come boiling out every night. But if we did not board it. And I do not deny that poetry had been found next to the Lifeboat house. But leave me alone with my drift, with the sound of my alarm clock, and my puddles March. And then I bled in his sleep, which is not pleasant. And while we are growing and both dreams, hair, nails, fears. We grow away. And the cracks are filled with poor soil herbs, contradictions, of omission. Someone has to come to fix this mess. And better if you understand gardening.
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