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just arrived in my parents' house. another year. on the coast. now. runs breeze and not bad and finally I think: who cares. ciudadmorunatriste last night was still, in the worst places to love, ie, in the worst places to be loved. I spent the whole day thinking about how difficult it is to love and feel loved in proportion. because I plan to rescue hackneyed topics. be corny as aesthetic choice and 'just right' as a category factor 30. or because I'm short of ideas (I'm leaving my poetic side as he did with boyhood friend ...). and watched couples in the afternoon. envied certain complicity. I cursed my bowels. shit always wounds. I'm not too open to the people, are the wounds of that leak. and then I was empty. and after that: nothing. maybe a wide bed. a chill or skin and semantic sad.
Coração Que-perfeito-
-no-meu peito-drums.
yours forever ... kisses.
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