When I was twentyfive New York smelled like London and whisky killed all bacteria
A Letter Kept To Myself Dear, It is somewhat what I imagine knowledge to be dark, salty, clear moving, forever flowing. Since our knowledge is historical, flown. A monotonous coastline, endless and sagging delicately ornamented by the moon still hanging solid. The poorest postcard of itself. Bats? I was waiting for this letter to find you home. I guess it will reach you on that waiting room, I am too shy to stop. Cannot derange or rearrange. The Islands have not shifted since. The pale bay still wearing a milky skin, flaunting exaggerated beauty. Topography still more delicate than history, insisting and cautiously creeping. Worming back. Like a prayer for the night to last twice as long. Those nights, not these.
Poor Job For I would not be like this ... toys But it may happen to me ... all And my tongue will not concoct ... evil
RANDOM RULES
3 MARCOS BRIAS
http://randomrules.blogspot.com.br