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Comin 'back from my silence.

Ok. They were ages since I wrote this little corner of the Web, but somehow today I went to the head of tornarvici.
What happened in my life since I stopped posting? Good question, to which I could only respond with two words: all or nothing. All because I had my first emotional bond of love public official from the thigh, I cried for my Professor of Italian, I battled against love and I came out, I think, winning, I went to London. But no: the emotional connection is recognized by the world vanished without a trace of tears (at least from what I'm concerned), the school is over and I do not think the lessons for months, there is no escape from love, there are only gauze to hide it, but if you take a shot a bit 'strong return to the blood-stained gauze.
Write me back your mind clear, it is true, I see black on white is my experience and my disappointment finally making them full of meaning. The thoughts did not form after all, the A and the T so.

Lendi C.

Harem Ecchi Mature, Anime

scrivere_dellecosechesuccedono

The existing list of what has been said (already) is a piece of paper that I keep in my little black agenda.
...

A man crying on a hot July day, with hands clasped and red wire on the railing of the bridge. Almost comically stretched over the small brook dirty.
The birds of the nearby trees, occasionally, they sang. They were silent, from time to time.
The man was crying false tears for the wrongs committed. The sun dried up the black asphalt and, again, was in July.

People walked as they walk each day. Straight. In simple thoughts of straight roads, ignoring changes invisible.
The shade of the leaves, moves from time to time by the weak wind, engulfed the weeping man, ignored by crowds on their way.
A young woman nearby, laughed a loud laugh and a little coarse. The dog of an old lady with big ears and the size of mouse, dog sniffed the ass of the next. Large-pastor from the air arrogant bastard.
And the man cried, but could not even throw in the small stream dirty. It would only hurt a lot and it would have seemed ridiculous. Perhaps the young woman would laugh again, even more rudely.

An elderly man, who could also be respected, sought empty glass bottles in small green bins rubbish pedestrian. Carrying two plastic bags from the supermarket. It smelled of warm beer, but the man who cried plan would not be able to distinguish the smell in the breeze.
Crying on small streams insignificant, in fact, the thoughts are smells and stomach usually changes the taste of the air closed in the summer.
The old lady and her dog walked past the old rat-bum of the bottles, not far from the man who cried tears dry quickly. How noble princess
lapsed.

It would probably be enough for only a brief smile of mom (or maybe two words of kindness free) on that hot July day, to make it less bad two small dead future. But this, from time to time, among people who walk straight.

Letter Of Disconnection For Telephone

Ma .. I wonder if one day I could write a long-awaited news ... I
Meanwhile
dream ... dream ... dream

German Checkered Tablecloths

scrivere_damore

poet of the evening is the night of all. When the sun was low
colors of dreams and the clouds are the lines drawn by the hand of an artist I recognize.
the evening of the poet's evening of sweet silence. A soul that rests in itself.
The light wind brings a peace impossible, and the wakes of international flights leave written illegible.
In the countryside, small steps running on wooden floors echoed in an echo of gay love empty houses.
the evening of the poet is the evening of the color of wheat.
A glass of red wine, half full, is sitting on the kitchen table.

the evening of the poet, I wait for you alone.
look ugly sitting in my comfortable chair and watch the world change in his time of peace.
In a small sip of red wine waiting for you, but it's as if you were sitting on my lap, and smiling at me kindly, I repeat it once again in the evening as you like, in that perfect moment of vague feelings.