E s the other day I got tired of breathing in my ear and said goodbye to little more than shouting. I said very clearly to leave. Leave me alone to do things, that the sun was shining in the window there, I like the autumn leaves, put me not to look at the day as if it were a kind of plague that goes off the calendar, I thought he was stirring with the wooden spoon as a burnt stew, which was fine.
A good listener, few words.
The banished, then felt a genius. Viva yo!
This morning I opened one eye, nothing here, nothing there, everything was fantastic and I jumped out of bed.
Ah, the p ...!
A stitch in the sole of my foot, it should aim to pierce the only shard of glass that is not where it came from and went to the foot of my bed. No choice but to take it out of there. I address myself to the bathroom to find a clip and ... Again! And over and over and the hall looks like a fakir's bed, terrified look at the floor waiting to see nails on end and there is nothing. But my feet are burning like they walking on hundreds of tips.
is it, thrown it back. I do not know what to call it, but it's here, confined to the soles of my feet.
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