I understand that it is better not to think too much.
Then jot down what, not the head, but the poslo, hand, fingers and heart want to say
certain situations run away too quickly. The time to go, and here you see them out the door immediately.
certain situations consist of an uneven patchwork of feelings, and talk really matters little.
In others I wish I could express more complete, but I can not, something stops me, and I say things by halves, or worse. And this is terribly frustrating. Write
however is a different matter. Between the lines I feel safe, protected and directed on a path to register with the footsteps caplestare ink.
Bembo said that merchants had to have more ink-stained fingers.
The writing is alive, dumb, turns, comes back, is linked, squats, but always manages to maintain its identity. Too often we underestimate. Be careful not to commit this fatal error.
Heck I would overwhelm words, I see you already Reel between vowels, consonants and diphthongs.
Help me, Carrol:
Come, listen, before word
bearer of bitter orders, ordering the
you slip into bed with hatred,
O sad girl!
We are only children aged
What irritated at the thought of having to sleep.
Outside the frost, the blinding snow,
The frenzy of the storm into a frenzy ...
At home, crimson glow of the fireplace
And the happy kingdom of childhood.
The magic of words you snatch them,
no longer hear the furious gusts.
And though the shadow of a sigh
may hover in this tale
In memory of "Happy days of summer"
And their fleeting splendor ...
That does not sigh with sadness velero
The gaiety of our story.
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