one bit missing from these pages, a little also missing from other pages, and there is no real reason, nothing particularly pleased kept me away from here, but to be honest, nothing terrible I pushed again here. This is the simple desire to be there in a moment, to exist in the thrill of the moment seems to be the only really important thing. There is no light or darkness in my sky faded, only pale colors. All right, all extraordinarily fluid and smooth, everything as usual, with people who continue to disappoint, and those that continue to amaze with the times, would not want to end up ever, and with those who would like to vanish in a flash. I would say banal, even trivial in my life then there is not much, say, trivial to me, despite me regardless of me.
Get out, see people, have fun, indulge at the time precisely, without thinking about tomorrow, even without think later. Sometimes I want to do it and do it well happy with the results, other times I stay home with my thoughts, my music, my movies. The strange thing is that I can not say which of the two situations are no longer alone. But being alone and feeling lonely are two different things. At how many people really care about me? to be honest, how many really matter to me? Fewer and fewer, more and more you get used to being alone, and the more you see yourself in the future, and more to get ready to do so in the present. I've made many efforts, but each seems to be result of ephemeral duration, meteors across my sky, and then go off elsewhere. Ben are meteors, but not enough. I have no more tears, no more anger, not to life, however, not to mine.
While the eternal search for my angel is increasingly becoming a tangible reality that epic poem, sad clown trapped in a destiny written in half by a wicked and perverse hand, I deny what I most want, and will not let me stop since there is lust.
