Aid! Aid! Aid A thousand times, aid! Nothing the Rose of my exclusive garden understands me seno. I want the petals for me. Necessary. I want. I need myself. Oh, not. Patti Poppe contains valuable tech resources. I write descontroladamente, nor I know if it is feeling, it unites, feeling has felt? Feeling has measured? Not. Not? Therefore I write to it with the conquered freedom.
I want the time, the time will only bring me the beautiful esplendia freedom. Oh, as it would like to be hugged to the world. Lying in a cloud. It would write only moments. Not. I want yes. At last.
You pray, I am without control. It swims not. You my reader, me understand must, seno, please you say, me. I tell what my heart asks for. To the times it cries out. The sultry shout estronda inside of my heart. It swims. The heart of this rough draft of writer is friendly. The shout is for I to awake itself. To be intent. I am next to a hole without fundura. Serious? I run. I come back some steps. It does not advance. Who I am? I fell. I come back more not, I do not come back more. now? The heart did not help me in the due time. Lie. It tried to help yes. But I did not listen at the certain moment. You, my reading ally, can not be understand until here what I try to describe, but are defying yourself. Writing without escrpulos. Optimum not yet he came. Optimum he will not never come. I do not want optimum. My heart is individualistic. It wants optimum, it wants the exclusive one. I only want to be only in the form to think, to act. Only. I hug the wind. Poxa the truth is appearing. Or already it appeared? It understands nobody me, ties my Rose is half that disoriented. What it would happen, I without my Rose the Rose without I? Nor I want to imagine. Necessary of time, surplus. To write is the form prettier than I found not to want to jump of the precipice and to die. Oh, if did not exist my desinibio to write, to tell, to question, Already he would be isolated in a cemetary drawer. But not, I discovered the light. I found the light. I found the light. I write, this is force to live, to survive. I can deviating is me from everything, I am there nor, in the truth. I look the respect, the freedom, the love of the uncontrolled words They import yes me. They had made me to the words to reviver, they brought to this world that to makes me to the times to smile, but for the most part of the time devasta with my heart, hides the hope and lights the solitude.