I'm sitting here and I'm telling you what I'm telling you. Actually, never. I couldn't answer anybody's question. I'm not at all interested in setting up those sentences that anyone would find remarkable.
I'm like that. I'm still someone who doesn't like it because it gives her peace, I'm still hiding in a red suitcase that she never wants to see.
I'm the one who thinks that things have to happen, that they shouldn't be missed, and that they're stuck with what they say.
I'm a guy who writes pages after that. I'm in need of a pair of hands, a pair of eyes, a heart, my phone.
I've been listening to them for hours. I'm a man without a curse.
Sometimes I'm the one who fell, knees bled, covered his mouth with his hands so as not to shout. Someone who has ignored my own pain, my wound, my blood. Because everything would pass. Everything that happened to us was trivial. With all of them, they could be dealt with. It's old. He would be left behind.
He wouldn't get lost, he would appear when you looked. He'd be there, but he wouldn't sink. The tip. You would take it in your hands because it wouldn't hurt, it wouldn't hurt. But there he is! She always stays.
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