I said it before. I don't like Sundays anymore. Last night was very difficult. The sleep escaped, I chased it. He was faster than me. I've waited too long to let the weather clear. The bed and the pillow were also covered with barbed wire. I stopped hoping to sleep, set my mind in front of my thoughts, my efforts to move on to other thoughts also failed.
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I had another idea. I got up, dressed up quickly and quietly, I left the house. Today he made his mistakes, his flaws, his times he broke me, his cheating on me, his bad habits, his ugliness, his fat cocks, the way he spoke loudly, his smoking on the phone, his smoking habits, his love for some of his friends, the way he wore a suit, even though I had told you a thousand times. at the moment to bite the power of the hair dryer to leave the plug, leaving the house to forget to turn off at least one light, makeup, any place can be lost anytime, anywhere, even if it does not always go to the dietician, quickly become angry, and who is nervous, who is not, to break down, to love to show the age of the small, when I learned that I was Parkinson was not with me at that moment, six months after the news, open buffet plate to fill unnecessary -and-fill, his car is very dirty, Coke to drink, when there are guests in the house I wanted to sleep, to lie down in bed, to poke my old mistakes in my face, to bring the whole bathroom to flood, to think and to hate it.
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As soon as I wrote it, I once again understood that I loved her with these things. Maybe I wouldn't like him if he didn't. I guess it would be ordinary. I figured this was really good on my writing.
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