I have so many things to tell you that I fit all here, in the throat, and pushing for usicre - I! first for me! no! I! c'mon, c'mon! - And suffocate. And I'm quiet, until you are all in line for two and we do not go quietly! Shut up, christ! Silence for a moment, and then again shouting, more impertinent than before. They're all there and you know the saying. Even if I try not to leave disconnected phrases, empty words dramatically: EMPTY. Why words can not write? Because talking is not like writing? Then there make you wear out of metaphors, images and stronzatevarie not only let you know that deep down I do not understand. Our eyes have not even said goodbye after so long. Our hands were intertwined and, with their own lives, they would not come off, and our noses. our noses are struggling with the winter too lenient, smell, opening words and curl with moisture and yet ... yet still float, oblivious, miles away, no one on their mast climbing the lookout, no one observes the horizon and nobody shouts "nose." We fish the same water, breathe the same air the same, but not yet we met. So many things I would have to say, to employ an entire book, to speak until the Galaxy will not BOOM! Andromeda with a bazillion meters per second as long as I do not speak to discharge the batteries until the end of the day and early night, and then in the evening, in the silence that would buy the flavor of the agreement, complicity criminal in committing a theft of other people's lives, but to know to make the purest charity and set in the living room of any house, under a bridge in a sleeping city of frenetic activity: Spending time.
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