Fattosta that never stops raining. May, my modesty favorite month, and June, my second favorite month to be used in the case in May did suck the dick (give me these French), are disappointing expectations of mild warmth to the skin remains unclear, picnic in the grass and drinking the night outdoors. That then I'm not complaining. Today I took any means of transport to make it back from London due to the fall of airline (I imagined a whole airline falling on the wires of the train or the tracks at first, then I said it was too catastrophic, and perhaps are the threads of the train to call the airline). Well then tornoa home, I shower and I find I have an album in ipod I did not remember, I put a beer in the fridge and all the world goes to the system, after his relentless slow circular movements that sometimes we like. I can not keep up with the music I listen to, see under The Long blondes are making me dance in place since the beginning of the beating of the post. Most of the time the album fell into obscurity of the album (ie the global folder in iTunes, a little bit of music listened to Pere Lachaise) in amigliore case scenario, you lose in the worst kind of new albums into folders (1), copy of new album, nuovinuovi, new. In short, a mess. And I always end up listening to Califano. I do not know how I managed to come to my mind but now that I keep it there. What then all women of that age who are frail 30 (+ / - 5) fell in love with Morgan again these ores cold spring through pooh that drive that I have never seen except in short passages. Of again because clearly above the women of marriageable age, when they were born Bluvertigo-age hormone Ameglio mad and so Morgan could turn their appetite pseudofilosofico busy. Okay, I speak for me. Well I've always liked Morgan. In his narcissistic-histrionic personality disorder. In his total self-centeredness. In his bad taste in clothes / tricks / wigs. In his desperate attempt to stand behind what 'Another well put. My destiny is intertwined Morgan several times in the past, not only in the typical spectator-stage version, but in several completely random and direct meetings. (Once even asked him if having to give up someone, he would choose Nietzsche or Plato. In short robe of a certain level. Do not laugh on, I was 15 at that time). However, the last interview given to the Bible, reveals a Marco Castoldi destroyed. He, who dreamed of having a family of other times, you have found a Yoko Ono of the poor (who tralaltro seems to have been the cause of the dissolution of Sixpence None The Richer), who sees his beloved little daughter, that he received false promises of 'love broken by the arrival of messages arrived accidentally pushed him but addressed to other recipients. A man apart. One man. Without hope. Morgan if you need, call. There are a host of women ready to cook a hot meal and tuck. I promise, this time no questions on Plato.
0 comments:
Post a Comment