I wake up, breakfast, and I still have the same life as usual.
You get up, eat breakfast, and continue with your story, as if nothing pass.
rose, or perhaps falling asleep. Your story made
wounds, they say. His story made
wound, he says.
of them.
And finally, under all that nonsense broad shared, nothing stays the same forever.
the end, after all, still the same fine line as ever, increasingly thin.
At bottom, under all that deep, sorry, that sometimes garbage depth is the same idea as always, the same absurdity ever, the line that separates the lives, stories, understanding.
I read without understanding.
I think I do not understand.
sometimes I do not know what to say.
Sometimes even I want.
And while in his story lines are reflected in the other so only reflected their own scars, the same pain as ever. Same story
so so deep that sometimes she was stupidly superficial.
As this year on those lines. As she reflected
Their Stories, maso less formal, in other lines, after coffee or lunch there were only injuries, wounds and scars of his own lines. Coming out of them, nobody else.
Not even myself.
line grew ever larger, and all I could do was keep reading and keep writing, sometimes.
And make way for the pain because, unlike his, included a part of history. Before, and now.
The history of others, not just theirs, themselves.
As if selfishness was no longer present in this story ... good, and all others.
As if after the disappointment of Christmas had to keep believing all other stories. Christmas did not exist, as I said in a small bar near my house.
And now I have to believe that this fine line is not going away as I found one I gave a.
Now I have to believe.
Now the devil has spoken, that his life is no longer my life.
That their stories are not mine, and his pain is my pain.
Now, I do not understand almost anything, isolated in a cold castle with no one to whom you please get me out of here without anyone to tell me, come to the city where he fell, again. As if the pain is seeping into the ground, and there was, in the city, stretching. Continues to spread now, as before.
Now follow me always being my heroes, although not as heroes.
Now she contemplates and, without thinking too much just go to who did not want to see.
Now she sees and realizes that what he called not been fulfilled, it did not come back before, and now neither will be maintained.
end up falling, like everything else.
Although often strive to believe that because it's easier to cheat, for it means a lot less pain.
But it is different, and always will be. different from the rest.
As said at the time.
And now even more, who missed important steps, and further, that the devil never stops talking, and more still preferring the devil human person, and simple, much more so than in his head and does not reflect the ideas of time.
even more when I hear the words coming out of his mouth, and seem of another, seems never to have been the same person.
Now, that took months thinking about it, but do not even know , express it, and go crazy to write, just because I write, and I'm losing my best to express myself.
Now that I've lost feeling, like everyone else.
Now, people are leaving.
Always will.
As always, the heart is almost empty.
As always, get over the pain alone.
As always, it stops hurting over time, or the pain gets used.
Everything, as always, not always before, my own always.
