is only a sense of guilt towards the inner child of this blog, which prompts me to type the words at random from this space that looks like a page. a part of me - as they say in certain forums - feel his pain (the inner child of the blog, I mean), literally feel her crying in the distance, his terrible wound of abandonment. terror black, hard as a wall, the bottom like a night without end, peopled with dragons of bloodthirsty inner child abandoned blog. masticazzi. I had little time, rationally speaking, more to do and think and to write to also have nientedadire between your feet. There are also other reasons which are of interest to those who read nothing but a lot of writers who have something to do with the pride and manly indifference habit of showing off when the opportunity arose to repay the same, if not more resonant, money. masticazzi, again, as it turned. and then spend time doing? to leave a sign for me to tell a point crossed. until I had expressed, this point was only beaten a float among the waves - that big word obsolete and un-ergonomic - but now, for me, this is a buoy. is always a float among the waves, but now it remains anchored in a certain area and represents a landmark, a reminder that its precise latitude, and then tracked for retrospective analysis, even if unsuccessful. masticazzi, in fact.
yes, they are nice to me, I do not use a cream.
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