Here I am.
's night. On Sunday.
nostalgia as I cursed my loneliness.
The impression is that short come back to bite.
Dear old fellow solitude ...
There is more poetry and mysticism being misanthropic, no doubt. At least for me.
We can only wait for something good enough because you're in deep shit.
A surprise, a message, something symbolic to someone you thought was hopelessly buried in the oblivion of the past.
Or maybe from a stranger. A Bolivian
tram asking me if I work at night.
A woman who smiles at me after that with a "Please." I give up. The blonde
the job interview that I look really beautiful. A Venus.
These are, paradoxically, the calm recesses of one unconsciously tends to reject the other.
one that considers unworthy most of what surrounds him.
Pleased to meet you.
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