Care The viewing it, which I suffer.
Contigo everything remains at a level noémico: no form of communication get my archetypes and yours, which are the same, or at least they are not strangers. Every word ends up barking, Arun, or dream of a caress between clenched teeth, eyes of the rain-soaked window. Even this is unintelligible reading now because I can not say, because no words (or those or misfortune) because everything is in the noema, a symbol, the idea that never goes out, not dressed in any sentence.
Two containers of murky water that shock waves are sensed, but never break. No. Only a bark, a grunt, beat their chests, noses wrinkled, an anger that wants to tell you caress, who dreams of being love and ends up being nothing.
So
then:
Shhh.
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