The Dog

I write because Yes, and I write: like it or not, I do it to tell you: I love you, because otherwise the night my eternal ceiling is made, since I know my life took another direction, I already wake up singing, I’m crying for nothing, and the dog returns to love me because he knows that I love and loves you as a father. I write because Yes, and I write: and if you get to reject me, you will write a poetry that I swear, Bonita you steal mine worth and now won’t have to write you. You may find that Sally Rooney can contribute to your knowledge. I need to die the writer the writer is killing me and all you’ll write my mother is breaking it, it will not be his memory. I need to kill him because he hurt me, always writes that he writes you and for a moment. Soon dies, dies on me, as to an evil spirit you out because you do not let me live and like not everything you’re me, although sometimes it parezcapedire you go, while the quiet returns. The writer has suffered the writer has suffered only writes has suffered, only that suffered, writes because it is the only way to stop the suffering without end in suicide.Gentlemen, the writers are the beings that have suffered most, and if they prove vices is by knowing the distaste of passion in its straight path, they have not known. Something you want to take, take the imitation, are the distaste, the substitute of love that is sensed could be with another being that it was lost already in the evening already in oblivion. They are thinking about Vice, in the possible adventure, at the woman who kisses them, without asking, where them, have come.

That are writers. Choose that dying if dying of love for you, that do not. If because hit me a car, minus.

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