I remain impressed by the attraction and which expresses love for each reading. I wish, at a more frivolous, know to tickle his pen with my fingers lady explorer or break forever the magic that had moved between two worlds who probably have little in common. Even today, I love him for his choice of words and the extent of wealth that are spirals letters inked under the weight of his unpredictable talent. But today the story is different. It is soft and caressing my abandonment of a delicate hand. This is a woman I'm in love when my love took a male form in its simplest aspect. There exists another, somewhere else, I feel it and hear it whisper my name when the evening my head touches the quilt.
I no longer dream of love and fidelity, but of passions and dreams to conceptualize. Push the extremes because without them dying in writing without a mass curve fragrance. I have not acquired the maturity of the writer, but I am the eternal fluorescent obsessed by the moon and dependent on men suns.
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