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death of a poet

Post, you make a post, write, and clik clak ... how to lose unnecessary time while the world revolves around you and you are stopped.


A passerby is collecting the tissue that has just fallen, does the teacher of cultural anthropology. Once
regained normal vision, he falls silent, bleaching and observes those arches so soft and family.
is visibly shaken, he is a cold sweat, so all lanky, he can not well understand why, but those arches remind him of something beautiful.
the middle of them there are two glyphs of colored glass tile, and greyed by the weather.
Now remember something, the thin line that rose to remind the beauty of that moment frozen in his head and warmed by the aged brandy. She
bounce in the head, playing football, a sport which does not follow either, but his approach well suits the stupid and useless.
Remember this face that has never been able fondles herself, crystal clear, with a disarming purity.
had come to an inch from it, felt the scent of youth slowly was fading, the color of those roses made him fall unconscious in emotion, almost disarming. He had been
whole minutes in silence to listen to the harmony that his brain was composing.
A bit like when they play violins, was spoiled for choice but the tantrums were just fine. A pigeon
distracts his attention, reminding him that lesson in a few hours there.
Damn, it really is damned by his thoughts, Jesus indicted as a perfect, free, and enchanted by his fate.
But nothing can dispel the thought that bounces on his head for months.
Before falling asleep also had thought of taking a nice valium or something like that, but you lived in the sixty-eight also means you have taken to heart too much. When he walked
the air was shaken, thrilled by its scent, and his sway was stumbling even more the brain. Bella
so nice to give her his heart in the meal, but then he also wanted to admit to himself that he was alive and this was the only thing that really mattered.
least fifteen years have passed since the last time it looked as arches, now an incurable disease forced him into bed, between those sheets that do not have that smell, that does not have that form, that light that does not have prepositions.
It's called love die, to die for a beautiful woman who is called music ...