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A short surreal story. |
As enchanting and extraordinary as it might seem, we are going to tell how is it possible the remainder of this epilogue (even though nobody never talks about it). There are moments during the year when the young folks suffer out loud, but never like the “ONE”, who can moderately disgust us (...but what a nice story). If he gets in his mind to add this and that, or to exhibit without purpose the Windowness (a random wonder), or once again the “ONE” that can moderately disgust us; it's always him (there are men that cannot read). Light fingers of heavy arms, that know and remember (do you get it?!), and then they're one faster than the other, they don't resist but for ears plus nostrils are arranged, and by any chance, are they mine? (one time while I was shearing, I moved myself to my right so much so that it became my left). Fattest like the serious intent of exceeding in beauty ( so Pino says!), and sensationally looking towards China that turns and turns again grazing Africa, with his dwellers that I've known for years, and also are racial attempts just like the super sophisticated red instruments (better to dine than to read, in Tuscany of course). Anyway, expect everything, since from now on I will choose for you; please forgive us for resembling a dream (even if I write it with six letters the meaning won't change), and if I allowed myself to do it with such emotion it's because I saw four times in a row a mailman woman with a philadelphian bike (there are men that don't know how to write...from top to bottom maybe!). |
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