Seven hours - Part IV
Do not ask me why so many more things ... more than the answers I'd like to delete the questions. I uploaded again the small wooden music box, I lifted in the wind because his notes come to him because to stay stuck straight into the heart and memories, finally, that it ought to.
But I know you will not do ... flee, as before, as always. Illusion as to wipe my feet. The same steps of the past, the same steps as expected and feared by the restlessness of his reasons.
continue to rub your hands ... it is so cold here. Still no rain. I'm so tired, so far away from everything. I would not have had to go back. I had to turn the darkness before burning the silence.
Oh no, no ... I may have burned the night and I can not remember. It will be the cold that creeps in between my eyebrows that confuses me. Yes, it must be cold.
The owl is still on the tree half rotten and he will now hear the notes through the darkness. Damn accounts will kill him and perhaps be able to sleep too. No, no, what I say. It can not die. His sentence is to live and rely only serves to make him see the sunrise without going crazy. Maybe I have to be so. I mean crazy. No, no, I do not know, I do not know anything. The answers questions swallow. The moon has a putrid smell of sulfur and the chimes ceased his sad duty.
It's cold here. Kill a thought. And then another and another. Until you have lost the answers to those questions silly. Mix until you have collected items to the ground, to bury them in her cold stare once back from me.
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