Ultimately all about that. Do not listen, but stunned in silence. Dream, not to remember. Laugh, not cry. Play the unconscious. Imitating the frivolous.
Simulate insolent. Brush the scandal. Take the knacker's yard the memory of who I was. Let me lead to a destiny marked, not by me. And in the bitter candles, rosary of insomnia with nightmares shared imagine. Create, nothing, it was not and what never existed. Think of the woman who loved and that was not beloved.
Pain so I did not and so I left to do. Living my own universe of disparate beings, ethereal and real. And after the sleepless night sky, the misty and cold morning my soul delirious welcome, provided, however unwillingly, to the eternal journey that is not returned. Not signed. Ink was old and yellow, and letters, slightly lying. Poema sense and maybe hurt. Or painfully felt. No meter, no rhyme Who had written? Why was he there? Why had not seen before? I re-read and left on the table. And for a moment I felt close to me, very close, my friend Cesareo and his voice hoarse but certainly nuanced. You told us that death is not the end of the road, but we die, we are not flesh of a blind fate. You have made us. Yours are. Our destiny is to live to be happy with you, without suffering or pain. Perhaps the author of what is written on that paper had not met Gabarain Cesareo Azurmendi that rested on the bosom of the Lord at age fifty-five years. Nihilism against faith. The denial against hope. Predestination the freedom he had written No. Let me lead to a destiny marked, not by me did not fit with the last verses of Caesarius dying because we live, life clearer and better-looking pregnant. I returned to reality. Beethoven was still there was rain outside And the paper on the table, seemed to be asking for forgiveness for making me think. I took it and had a hint No. There was no question of destroying it. Not to judge. Someone, sometime, for some reason, it hurt this may have had reason to Jose Felix Salinas in November 2009 a