... not a real writer, to tell me that life really is now shifting, upon, over, inside, beside, around ...
Telling new people who live in "my" house in Baires, and those I met in these days of travel ... their stories, their lives. The troubles, joys, sorrows and hopes. The dignified poverty of the people and not only. Even the wealth and collected ... as well as lies and lies. O cunning ... who knows.
The people I meet smells like poetry, poetry is not educated, not deciphered. But things said and lived in every move. I'd like to know how to do, say, forward ... will be the usual that I am romantic, dreamy and idealistic ... will be ... But here I see the meaning of hope, hard work, dedication, defeat, dedication, rebirth, nothing, everything, strength ...
It will be for my imagination that I'm in love always of lies, imaginations of men, which confer merits and virtues that but not ` have? So far has always been so `... who knows ...
But now I prefer to fall in love the moments, moments donated by each individual, for better or for worse. An act which aims to understand, nothing more.
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