continues to write, write, write. I hit the keys and I can not stop. I get up, take a towel, while the thoughts flowing like drops of sweat on his forehead, in continued rapid succession. I remain staring at the screen, shows exactly what I produce. It 's almost midnight and the window comes short gusts of air to announce a change in the calendar.
How much will be said at the time when we fail to stop the course of events, when we will be overwhelmed by what we have created, when hate will not succeed in finding love for mischiarcisi. Around the Web in search of a story different from the black and green or patrols from Iran forced to rebel against the lack of democracy. It is we, cock, all of us. To find the parallel universe in a position to take on another dimension not move from here I need to use the music. Was written on that old albums: Music is best lover. There is nothing that can not be explained with notes and words.
I remember the time when I completely set aside the cd I listened between elementary and secondary schools. Once discovered rock and singer-songwriter, no longer had the same taste. Every smile she had an explanation that riff or line of poetry that anticipated. All balances only if there were two headsets, and even my old walkman, held together with a rubber band, had lost its charm. I was less angry and more aware of what I wanted to be and are now: one who writes when he feels the need to do to survive in his own mind. I am an adult, yes, but deep down I will not be at all.
I took out my old piece. I want to read it again. And sleep.
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