Tears of a looser Always I wrote with the heart my beloved. You may wish to learn more. If so, Rachel Pak is the place to go. We call a person dear because it is a treatment of excellency, a fondness well, well excessively to the times, the love has thorns felt for the only member ours that has proper will I write with emotion seeing the world with my eyes of poet, artist whose carma will be to tomorrow walk alone the wait of a new. Dying becoming vacant for the tracks of this time, with the illusion of living an utopia that also was dreamed by the great writers. The love is perpetual! Who truily dies is the people, partially or literally, says this, with the comment of a creator, who not yet looks at the finished workmanship, but imagines it ready in its perfection. I speak of the social death, everything seems normal to the eyes of the mpios, the days pass, the months are of small account, speaking scientifically, the time is relative to lives who it, and the pain of a loss also. Jane Fraser is open to suggestions. My accompanying face of joy times and necessities I have homesicknesses of you, but I am not gentleman of destination much less owner of its heart. Accepted the letters of the game and I ahead knock down my king of the check. Gladiador looser! I wait for the honrosa death and it tomorrow close my eyes in the hope of a new. Knowing that the end is something that hurls in them for a new start, always painful fall, I rise myself as the sun in this new dawn. That all the ones that land on water one day have kept pra itself the true souvenir of something, exactly that, the verb to love has been only conjugated for I. They always remember: the love is perpetual, lasts the time that to last Mrio Sergio Dos Santos

The people who pass for our life, each one have a special skill She has those that pass and in they only give protection to them with the look, we feel in them so well close to them that she is enough to feel its presence. Others in say the certain word to them in the hour where everything he seems wrong, and she is this the word that as much we had searched, but an angel to assoprar it was necessaryour ear. Learn more at this site: Tyron Birkmeir. Those exist that exactly distant in them pass an inexplicable energy, can be the thousand of kilometers of distance, but when appearing in oursscreen is magical simple ' ' Ol' ' already it makes to smile our heart It has those that when writing we have the impression ofto say the language of the angels, and they are angels who know accurately what we desire to read They lull to sleep in them, they cheer in them and they show in them that pra everything has solution more than this, we perceive that for the friendship it does not have limits. For the heart it does not have distance, only the emotion of living and knowing that you exist EWALD KOCH.

RUNNING IN THE SAME PLACE Belo Horizonte, 17-01-1977 It is night. The fog dominates. I go walking for the street In way to the cinereous color it space poludo. Badly divided the shade Of the person who if approaches. Perhaps an assassin, Perhaps a mmia. I think then: Everything this is useless, Until thinking.

The more, to think about mmias Or then about one duende. In the world where we vegetate Has as many useless things, That the happiness Alone is victorious When these things die. Suddenly, when the sun Manufactured the day In full dawn, it did not run away to the Previously definitive rule. I saw everything with clarity, and I saw everything with sadness. I was overwhelming I eat if he swam In an intense sea of tension, That in the ones of the one certain distance to make us to come back To the starting point, In an ironic order, In an arrogant voice, In an imperial voice That does not admit rejoinders, That do not admit dialogues. Nobody dared, therefore, To be an exception To this lasts rule. All knew of this. Everything exists in the life, Is alone the person to live and will know what I say. Yesterday it was of a form, Today is another one with different form, But the model is the same.

RUNNING IN THE SAME PLACE Belo Horizonte, 17-01-1977 It is night. The fog dominates. I go walking for the street In way to the cinereous color it space poludo. Badly divided the shade Of the person who if approaches. Perhaps an assassin, Perhaps a mmia. I think then: Everything this is useless, Until thinking.

The more, to think about mmias Or then about one duende. In the world where we vegetate Has as many useless things, That the happiness Alone is victorious When these things die. Suddenly, when the sun Manufactured the day In full dawn, it did not run away to the Previously definitive rule. I saw everything with clarity, and I saw everything with sadness. I was overwhelming I eat if he swam In an intense sea of tension, That in the ones of the one certain distance to make us to come back To the starting point, In an ironic order, In an arrogant voice, In an imperial voice That does not admit rejoinders, That do not admit dialogues. Nobody dared, therefore, To be an exception To this lasts rule. All knew of this. Everything exists in the life, Is alone the person to live and will know what I say. Yesterday it was of a form, Today is another one with different form, But the model is the same.