posting is true that very little, every death of Bishop (the language is horrible), 1, 2 or 3 times x month high. Nothing. Admittedly, this is a plunger, they are threads and threads of thoughts semi seeking the cathartic and symbolic rub. It is true that it seems that I hide and I think ghosts of pure noir police reader. It is also true that I have (of at times) the serious and earnest purpose of translating this material truly religious, confessional in the sense of plausible, credible in the sense of genuine, authentic in the sense of poetry just pretentious and upset, that disguises events and protagonists like oh!nothing, of myself, my John Marcher, the hand holding the whip of the speaker T. Capote). It is true that some of this deception becomes therapy, it is true that the slightest slip (at least!) And I faced to the side of the convoluted prose and appears, at least, a circumlocution. To say an exquisite corpse, the kind that even I understand when I read 2 years later. (Lie always understand them. I am a brilliant neurotic). It is true that the last thing my writing is naturally exude. It is true that a strategy to attain that and what desirable? Naturalness is the story of the everyday. Something like, Ponele (which abound in interjections such as & am
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