Some nights, unable to avoid the bites of melancholy solitude. The sails of the sanctuary of clay consumed by burning candles, impassive, coming during his final hours and, consequently, to his death. Following is no longer light curtains. Some time that street children were called from the windows to dinner.
The beautiful memories fade. Melancholy, one present, this monster does not stop in the way of approach, in their hurried steps toward that north, now, later, impossible to stop. It feeds on illusions and flame of light, especially loves the smiles decayed. A successful kiss begins his story of a gray existence. But avoiding lips of dead flesh gains salvation nonnegotiable night after conviction.
Anyway, this evening a writer under discussion in the darkness of spiritual fatigue. Your soul is calm? Yes, perhaps reflections only slower than usual. She feels lonely, from time to time all disappears in your living room rug, and tonight feels cold inside. Strange that previously handled the pen between his fingers, now forgotten in the back of a drawer. No writing. Think. Think of a man who does not love tonight, tonight has forgotten her, with the invisible blanket sitting before the fire in your living room. Only two verses uttered by his lips dry, thirsty for love. Before collapsing on the carpet dotted with fire.
"Soon.
Or I'll be speechless."
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