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Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why-- made up the tale that love exists on earth. People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love. But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down... I found this out by accident and now it seems I'm sick all the time. The Rio Olympics should be sick as hell tho
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Jun 5, 2016 16:18
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 07:11 |
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