Birthday Invitations Scrapbook Manifesto

so clear and ambiguous. A number of lights I do with the lyrics, the resources of a gimmicky less desperate than mired in the certainty of having nothing to say (but, oh, have it all).

I like many things, he said: I like such books, but not all. I do not necessarily like old books, with the aroma from Pearly dulzóny with the crackle of dust lurking around every second page. In fact, I think I like the new editions, those that bring the perfect cover to be proud of the role of illustration (nothing more pleasing to an author to submit to the d & amp; oacute; easy tyranny of the ego against his lyrics on a stand that elevates the status of "enlightenment") that are a bit unreasonably expensive. I like the rain, and I like to say I like the rain because I love romantic tragedy, but it is false, I like the rain because the sound of rain (in the sound of raindrops scraping windows of my house) I find something that is not captured in music. I like all kinds of make-up, half by transferring maternal half because - oh, come on - I am this Frankenstein of vanity and self-pity. I like the pastel colors, and do not mind (the truth is that I do not care) that I have leftcapelines drawn from the imagination of Jane Austen. For the prose, men (for life, men); for poetry, women and no more questions, because in literature as in love, sympathies are involuntary. I like the starvation, the languor, the Stoics, I like the covers still in the middle of summer, ice slush, and the shock of a violin breaking the curve of the air. I like detective novels, women are fatal as mirror images of all my problems, my hair is blonde but not as blonde and vanilla candles. I also like the last part of the bread, sleep when I'm exhausted, to read eyesit can the existence of a god of consistency.
I think this, and writing, the only thing that saved me from the abyss.