Solitary ManHe, of laminated paper; she, full of lucid emotions, finally clearer and sincere.
But among them stands a figure that breaks the protocol.
He enters her thoughts and sullies his privacy to find out that she is dominated by an authentic passion for life, which flows in the veins mixed with blood, giving strength to his artistic soul.
He has no specific age. It comes from the kingdom where nobody dies.
Sometimes feel that he is dying alive, and his only hope is the death.
He calls the living dead his friends, and calls the living, his executioners.
How many times when laugh also cries... His soul cries when her face laughs.
You are always, when I close my eyes, when I open the window, you are the image in the palm of my hands, what people see in my eyes.
You are what you are not with anyone, literary night, pulsation of death, ridiculous promise and love.
She: A black line extends her eyes ... Blurs the gray pencil, trying to make them even more beautiful. White teeth taste like mint. A
Heartache Every MomentI had never seen eyes so naive. That soft mouth, of pastel color, that velvety skin ... everything in her looks fragile but perfect.
A star on top of another, never a calculable amount, a passion for you, about a passion for you.
Breathing with your gazes, your eyes, your heart. It was stupid to be so focused on one person, and I knew it.
A strange sensation at see you, you're looking in the wrong direction. And as if guided by a divine hand, for the sweet push of destiny, turn your gaze to me.
Everyone knows the beauty of your eyes, and you know they are the most beautiful ... and still you dedicate me a glimpse ... then why when you look at me you do it coldly ? With eyes so cold that freezes the soul.
You do that to hurt me, but I must say that you reflect a little spark of pity for this undignified love for you. Even so, your look is more beautiful than the person who looks at you, do not look at me like that ... because you will not be less beautiful.
And if you have a second of y
The SacramentNo longer responds to my messages, nor my calls...
Every day hanging by a thread is my hope...
I never believe to lose my heart this way for someone else…
Now I wonder why suddenly she no longer wanted me. Why my life went empty. Why nobody answer my questions...
Nothing left without her...
Live without living in me and the hope for life is so high, that I die, because I do not die...
One day I dreamed a love like no one could ever dream it, some love it was all life, all poetry.
And the winter passed and did not come, and the spring also passed, and neither came.
I'll stop calling the Moon by your name. Maybe knows, that I died in your mouth.
You have killed more than ten times and I have been reborn in other: your eyes.
Happy images of the woman fill my confused mind.
My heart lets himself go, and for the first time is quiet. And I smile at the naive girl.
About the beauty of the night, the immortality of the spirit, the stupid of the diurnal world, the black magic, his desire
I try to avoid wearing shoes,I try to avoid wearing shoes, even the metaphorical kind.
There’s something about being touched by every blade of grass and affectionately scratched by every crack in the sidewalk that dares me to take another step. And sometimes I need that.
And sure, after a while you find your feet stained black with asphalt, and some people think that’s ugly. Once or twice, you’ll probably notice a friendly piece of glass in the side of your toe, but at least in my experience, there’s always been someone who will gladly knock a stranger’s door and ask for tweezers.
Maybe wading through waterfalls means I’ll spend a third of my life with the sniffles, but hey, even illness is a feeling. So I’ll keep making snowfolk with my bare hands and dancing in the rain until my hair is soaked through. I’ll keep forgetting my jacket even though you’ve reminded me six times there’s a chance of a storm.
Once a butterfly has landed on your chest you can ne
BFT Host Club - Rozdzial dwunasty Rozdział dwunasty
W nowiutkim szkicowniku powoli pojawił się domek, niezidentyfikowane krzaczki z czerwoną ospą i uśmiechnięte słoneczko, niczym z teletubisiów. Autor tego dzieła, radośnie mruczał pod nosem, dorysowując obok krzaczków patykowate ludziki ubrane w za duże koszule.
- Co ty w ogóle robisz, Tonio? - zapytał Gilbert, który wręcz leżał na stole obok szkicownika.
- Rysuję! - odpowiedział Hiszpan. - Feliciano powiedział, że Lovi lubi przeglądać rysunki osób, które lubi.
- I myślisz, że spodobają mu się bazgroły przedszkolaka?
- Tonio, rysuje co najmniej tak dobrze jak trzecioklasista – powiedział Francis, wchodząc do kuchni. - Gil, dalej rozpaczasz nad swoim nowym związkiem?