He lamentado cosas, pero ni un sólo día de los que pasé con ella.
Black eyed María, no more

Comme je vais à cacher et je vais recouvrir le tout avec des feuilles entières de fluides de vous laisser aller.

Un poema a medias tintas serán letras borroneadas, una pluma que te ofrece homenajes a la nada, entera dame tu boca, no la mitad de tus labios que me endulzan con sus besos, y me escupen con agravios.
"Si un día la vida te arranca de mi lado, si murieras lejos de mí; no me importaría si no me amas, yo también me moriría."
Para que nada nos separe, que no nos una nada

15.1.11

It has never been about being happy. Sometimes it was all about being sad, selfish, stupid ass-holes with mental problems. People thought of us as weird human beeings. Life has turned an unpleasant thing with ashes instead of love. No one knows love, everybody think they feel it, but that's just a butterfly flying inside your stomach. A stupid butterfly doing stupid stuff. We think about suicide and ketamine, we think about living inside a bubble and climbing a tree. We feel like the world has put the weight above our shoulders. And we are actually mental. We are serial killers, we kill our own fate. Even though there's no such a thing, it exists inside our minds. We believe, at least we guess so. We think we can do it, and we just do it. Life has turned out to be a problem, and, well, it is. Because it doesn't let us see the truly importance about being here, you know, alive. WE CAN DO EVERYHTING, AND WE WILL REGRET THINGS, BUT LIVING, IT'S THE BEST CHOICE A REALLY MENTAL, IRONIC AND AWFUL PERSON CAN MAKE.

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