Nor disfara that the good one of the life is the homesickness, the perfect symptom of the memory and the absence of our mediocre indifference. I remember and always love that pain emanates that me of the memory. He has people that she prefers the soul vile. He has man that he refuses yourself to day-after- love and to affirm day the fear of if to lose in who if loves. I have the disdain to offer to this. I load in the body the delirium of some day to know to love better.
To love more. I do not deny: I have envy of who very loves. Of that they load in the face the tear not contained. The bravery of if declaring gotten passionate for the kind mother. I deplore myself Some gift in special date decides very.
In day any decides everything. But I have olvidado of that love in people appearance that, to the look in the face of the form almost perfect the one that still I call mother, I started to have shame of me. Yes. I with me have insulted until me in the undesirable dialogue of. So great is the cowardice of silence. But as that of the irony of the future of which nothing more seno expects that one same treason to any ousadia of so previous asseverao here it is that my mother still insists on me. It speaks badly and it treats bad me. It lowers me it reputes and me ungrateful. It says me that he leaves only me when remote when in hollow to rest its dust. Ingenuous. As somebody that is only born exactly alive, I look to it in that I make. When deceased, twenty we dcimos of my soul will be nostalgia and compuno. Half of me will be died. to another half will lead not more than one minute at last to die. I love to it. in its eyes I recognize my ungratefulness I perceive myself and I deplore myself. I I remember that, as perpetual dependent, the part more alive inhabits than me in the body never left of being you. My silence kills me. So great is the cowardice of the dumb meat