Apathy, sweet irony, ionizes under my eyes to take the shape of my body. It is a time of drought that swept my whole being at this difficult time. When the war descends on itself like a rain of missiles, when can we all drop without penalty? Should we wait until everything eventually collapses before deserting the void? I do not have the same insurance against adversity. Faced with the attack, I'm qu'exténuée. I would write the joy, but I write better sentences. It is the fate of apprentices writers. Disfigure beauty, persecute his euphoria to kill. The isolation in the deep silence and androgyny are only feed my recent poverty concussion.
I wanted to redefine the ordinary, but was aborted my sketch. The draft has given way to immorality. There is now a caricature of a vulgar reproduced.
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