Sunday cloth slippers and three newspapers, the Morena anchovies flour with the jersey at the elbows, silvery little books together with a background of red pots and Fridays of Lent, haikus and teaching belly brown long shoal minimum jumps to the singing night. Afternoon
remember that no man of letters may not like Quevedo, childish pride to like Quevedo, to inquire in vain for the vast google in search of a story that Moore once told me, I think that in the bank a cemetery, although the likelihood of the image, evocative, real is almost nil. Siesta
thinking that if we get an injury playing is a drama and that discreet point of blood on the back is a scandal, mother, sell and see if you get stupid. But if it were a sword fight in the Hebrides, if you fall from a horse and turn on the frost to avoid a final lunge, then the wound is're lucky, happy sigh friends and courage for a while. The wound is the same, but the view change as a matter of different probabilities. In the nap tend to think things without thread and moral. Sometimes on rainy nights in the mouth of a cave with the wet layer on the shoulders and hands in a parallel double-barreled shotgun, while behind the trees, the wolf howls and the enemy creeps. Not imagine, are fictions happy. A symbol of sleep and respite.
and later recalled that come what may hardly come most magnificent peaks that Friday. In the Slaughterhouse, you all did to me, with joy, undeservedly happy. Then thirty-two more cups, I waited at the gates of coffee Ruzafa to take effect as the morning air to save me. After I got home, I found a strange letter in the mailbox, I snuff and food collection with Brown until now.
There SUCEN Sunday that stuff. And they are beautiful.
Note: What a boat to illustrate why the text? Do not make me explain things according to what this point.
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