And after seven, spilled wine on the tables that could be the gender of the ceilings. Nobody notices. Alcoholic odor spreads a cloth fibers embarrassed. "It also hurts that never existed why it hurts it hurts?" Think, and remember the lyrics to Mejer, can not remember right now. It all seems confusing, it seems all of slime. And then that damn poem that goes: Our breaths are like / to the vultures / a crocodile tears / cynical / us what we should be / in a crazy world. / Crazy as éste. / We are vultures / ridicule of evil men / we all / less people buena-mala-idiota./Somos the vile imitation of the ancients. And the breath persists. Yet. / We are so . That was so ago ...
[score not to blame.,,, We win! Rolen ¡,,..¿.; their oars.!. Sons of Zeus ,,,.,.,; ...]
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