think that Madrid is just where it starts the soles of your shoes is to forget about the bowels of the city. Because in the colony that smells sweetish first appointment is mixed with the sweat tired of the last brick. And the bitch looks cross and the priest. And the book opens legs of the blonde in front. Down below
change city soundtrack. Mechanisms and comic scream machine to go through the tunnel. Entering a car is betting on the future present. The die is cast. A woman and a teenager curled share an "ABC" that do not care who owns. Peaks and gels, curls, bald. Boots, flat shoes, stilettos and house slippers. Fat and fat, high and low. Onlookers and eyes, and paws Sobon.
"Are you about five minutes for coffee, dark?". I lack the time and feel like I have plenty. Most oil
Madrid is in her womb.
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