West you shalt
or course. In between the lines that skirt is losing a chick gave in hopeful meter alone touching your skin. The streets of the Court are the place, smiling and without glasses. The size of herself at sixteen and relentless experience gave thirty. Just do not look in the eyes of the people, we look at the thoughts that they escape through the pupil and the first will "cove." No time for anyone to pay for a drink in a den or Malasaña Vallecas, no space for boring sex under his sheets.
is now over and she is. And no eye contact until they share the third coffee, but most tires with two.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Le Più Bone Escort
pink skirt tzarowski @ 2007-03-19T13: 00:00
Blood, anger, dreams of fire that I marked in my heart.
The immigration bureaucrat leads a outside hopes deaf ears. Aseptic windows, a thousand times tampered passport. Do not get away with it in your papers do not fit the roads to wear our shoes.
Blood, anger, dreams of fire that I marked in my heart.
The immigration bureaucrat leads a outside hopes deaf ears. Aseptic windows, a thousand times tampered passport. Do not get away with it in your papers do not fit the roads to wear our shoes.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Clear Discharge Before Period
tzarowski @ 2007-03-12T15: 07:00
- To you, restless, always filling up your bags and helping to dust mine that will go away with memories of your looks.
way ticket across the Atlantic.
The earth is nothing, the sea was filled with the salt tears aquellxs who left no will own the land they grew up. And come the waves that were born in Montevideo the coast of Galicia, and you and I look the same horizon, the same moon, the sun itself not hot enough while you're not.
miles of hope, dreams and illusions
(as always) that the city
not be silent under the roar of a hundred thousand other (this time).
I leave and come back.
I will leave the way back to yesterday morning and full of smiles. The tears they fall on my return to Madriz must be tremendous, powerful. Mark the asphalt. My boots
'll shut the mouths of those who set the course. The road is to walk. Walking is fighting for life with no destination.
You stay dead, Madriz. The streetlights do not prevent the decay of your existence. Malasaña is no rat's nest or by Huertas letters fall out of windows.
way ticket.
- To you, restless, always filling up your bags and helping to dust mine that will go away with memories of your looks.
way ticket across the Atlantic.
The earth is nothing, the sea was filled with the salt tears aquellxs who left no will own the land they grew up. And come the waves that were born in Montevideo the coast of Galicia, and you and I look the same horizon, the same moon, the sun itself not hot enough while you're not.
miles of hope, dreams and illusions
(as always) that the city
not be silent under the roar of a hundred thousand other (this time).
I leave and come back.
I will leave the way back to yesterday morning and full of smiles. The tears they fall on my return to Madriz must be tremendous, powerful. Mark the asphalt. My boots
'll shut the mouths of those who set the course. The road is to walk. Walking is fighting for life with no destination.
You stay dead, Madriz. The streetlights do not prevent the decay of your existence. Malasaña is no rat's nest or by Huertas letters fall out of windows.
way ticket.
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