took the man from behind, his hands resting heavily on the shoulders of that led him down a road. Reaching the wall allowed to turn and look. There was nothing, no sun, no moon, no a thousand times, and autumn in the park bench, or tears later. Nothing.
He removed his shirt, button by button was leaving marks on the wind, which blew up the top. In the torso you drew a deep sound, but he still could not watch it, listen to disperse the ink, slide the brush and press. He tore the skin
one hitch, his lips traveled each fibrous muscle in search of herself, and leaves were forgotten on the shelf, which spilled into languages \u200b\u200bon hunger hungry, waiting and reading stuck on the wall.
with hemoglobin red mouth sang the verse of the child who wets her shoes, slipping in the words of the bank, like the foam on the crest of the waves. With the certainty to exist, attempt to understand the infant sailor soreness, but was lost in the failure to find, in desire, in the corner.
stars, night dress unadventurous, filled their hands with silhouettes, she dressed man with illusions and put them on. Skin back to the table and turned off the lighthouse. It was with the silhouettes.
