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After the pause of the soul, after reflection and delay, it should say who and what is intervened to stop the course of things. As if the heart does not beat anymore! We rely on the pretext of the silence, the traffic jam of feelings and emotions, an interdict, that is a notice not to proceed, even to desist, the fold of the things that certainly sounds like Fate and irrevocable passage of time.
On 13 December we had stopped perplexed in front of an interrupted dialogue. The time that separates us from that December day was used to heat the blood, to break the stalemate we've been closed.
Imagine that a girl mad honey is equal in front of you on a cold winter evening and tell you that nonsense about what you could do together if you had not sent an appointment with her several times. And imagine that still appeals to even the condition of your person engaged emotionally, challenging each other on the ground that you thought safer. Consider the sweet thoughts and voltage to a load port unlikely because of uncertainties and risks. Think also of having to do with a tattered unrepentant that passes from one story to another without showing it, but maybe also tells you the last three or four stories happily consumed. But keep in mind that it was not a madcap but a woman of austere beauty of women of other times, which contrasted with the loud chatter and gesticulate child. As if that was the contrast of light offer of a deliberately light-hearted and sincere, but in reality mask a hidden pain and an unspeakable pain.
Our thoughts turn immediately to the task that a male feels like a moral imperative but also as a dessert that is distilled in the heart: "comfort the afflicted" was not a duty to the past? Why, though, I comes to mind as an expression and prohibits tired? Again, I find myself to donate blood to the grant? proceed to forget about me, making me suck in the vortex of this beauty decomposed because asymmetrical, unequal, since the exterior of this woman certainly does not match the reality of his soul?
Imagine the insinuating twinkle and careless talk of trivial things, as if to create the curiosity that is required to establish continuity and file ... In short, the ingredients were all there for a Murder Dec. 13, but I would not disappoint hours leaving you believe that I have lived up to expectations of the woman-looking girl of trouble. If a handsome twenty-four virginal looking, in fact, I threw out: "You ask me what am I doing here! What are you doing ... I'll tell you: looking for trouble", you tell me if it should sound alarm bells sleepy conscience, already seduced and almost annihilated - they tell me I've always been fascinated by women (as if it were something original and exclusive!) - not at all implied by the bid itself by a seductive and desirable woman, who hides his heart of a girl behind the thick blanket of bravado and talk seemingly disinterested, as if we had not just with you! as if the trouble does not seek them with you! Be cool to say that the heart can not control! You a step away from, yes, maybe just whispered. But then, so what? No request had been made explicit. Rather, I would say, a bait was launched. And it was necessary to be a fisher of souls (in pain), perhaps eager to random attacks and occasional basis, because it is never clear whether the circumstances of life there interpellino for a concert of Bach or a song by Cole Porter! You tell me: Music is always, always green eyes of a gypsy we will get to forget God, but considered a bit 'my four commitments, things well earned over the years, Martina, tutorials, Tolentino, l' invincible modesty of a male of another era, and that's it.
For all the days of 'states' that took place in front of me I did nothing but smile pleased and flattered, visibly moved. I pretended not to see the woman who was behind the girl who played. I played too, until the 'melting', after the weakening of the voice and the diminishing of sexual tension. I had no more voice. Not words. Only a subtle desire for another time to live with her, but with the other that she was, fortunately well hidden, with closed doors and ironmongery and laces that made it inaccessible. Only my eyes could easily rest on her, that her soul was clearly leaning toward me, mouth wide open in the cry restrained. Maybe love was the cry that he did not say.
Along the roads of the world we all come together at times, hungry and alone, to request that the bank balm and a voice that also reaches out to us. Maybe we did that voice will embrace, and more, that only our daydreams are able to paint in the cold night. But the time it carries the scent of the night in severe gait. What remains is only the echo of a fragment. Life is really elsewhere!
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