They say the most beautiful things are born from desperation.
say, but undoubtedly knows his. All things stronger, the stories that make you dream ... you devour this paper, the eyes, bulbs crazy move up and down the page and eat as you Pappano all the words one by one until the automatic gesture of turning the page, the document safe and comforting of who helps you with the score as you play and your hands are busy.
Everything that moves has kept his eyes.
All you turn on, which makes you dream, born of desperation. Suffering, boredom, from handkerchiefs snarocchiati stacked in a cooling almost premenstrual syndrome.
Cemeteries Kleenex. Torn papers. Slammed doors.
say that the more you suffer and you're sick and you give and take, the more the mind gives birth to the most beautiful stories of all time, as the collections of CDs that you find the night in telesales.
they are right? Very possible.
is not to discuss the restorative force of the heat of writing, the flow smooth, which brings you to explain your stories, and party apparatus to place the letters and words on checkered tablecloths crisp left to dry in the sun.
E 'undeniable serenity that permeates your being after you freed from the anguish of a weight heavy, intricate, negative.
But the stories you cover are also born out of disorder, the unmade beds of our sleepless nights. From
shit often.
Many good things come from shit, and maybe this is one of those.
A history of shit.
say, but undoubtedly knows his. All things stronger, the stories that make you dream ... you devour this paper, the eyes, bulbs crazy move up and down the page and eat as you Pappano all the words one by one until the automatic gesture of turning the page, the document safe and comforting of who helps you with the score as you play and your hands are busy.
Everything that moves has kept his eyes.
All you turn on, which makes you dream, born of desperation. Suffering, boredom, from handkerchiefs snarocchiati stacked in a cooling almost premenstrual syndrome.
Cemeteries Kleenex. Torn papers. Slammed doors.
say that the more you suffer and you're sick and you give and take, the more the mind gives birth to the most beautiful stories of all time, as the collections of CDs that you find the night in telesales.
they are right? Very possible.
is not to discuss the restorative force of the heat of writing, the flow smooth, which brings you to explain your stories, and party apparatus to place the letters and words on checkered tablecloths crisp left to dry in the sun.
E 'undeniable serenity that permeates your being after you freed from the anguish of a weight heavy, intricate, negative.
But the stories you cover are also born out of disorder, the unmade beds of our sleepless nights. From
shit often.
Many good things come from shit, and maybe this is one of those.
A history of shit.
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