I drag the fatigue from Sunday to Sunday, with a couple of nights in which sleep two hours, in most cases to enjoy the delights of Mother Nature; making a total of not more than twenty hours of sleep a week ... And all for wanting to squeeze more life, which I am almost certain end to squeeze me happy. At first the excuse that you're young and you, okay, but when you get to a time when you are young, and besides, mature, or at least more than they were before, not that tired, but exhausted. I've been accumulating post-it with dos approximately two months, I guess that more than one will have expired already, or at least I have the hope of it. And now, suddenly, it rains at sea, like movie rain caused by the most powerful generator. Now if that makes me want to have someone who make love in the most savage. To give myself completely. To smile while you feel that kissing on the lips of another are infinite. Find the pleasure it has to be. I have been so desired as desired. Scream, mourn and paste more than a slap in the dark if necessary. But feeling. We is not happening. Both. I let pass the bitter swill of the expulsion of the entity that accompanies me on my bed in the morning of Friday, that bloody presence begins to be really annoying when the rays of sun began to go out the window. That almost lifeless body and voice that sometimes stretches as a presence in a display of charm, which ends disappearing at the most in the second week. I feel, to win, and if this requires reducing to fifteen hours of sleep a week, I'm ready for this. Feeling, until you hear an echo.
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