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picked clean the juicy first fruits of the euphoria, the squares were all put in their place by the rain. "Padlocks piled now" considered the creaking lemur, with its little voice worried.
soon as she had done, to free themselves from the wreckage sibilance that plagued his wrists, which like a good magician ' was. There remained the option that filiform, the way out dripping. In addition to the skirts of the courtesans who were waiting outside the trial.

While the doctor prepared the daily dose of ultrasound-tempo dance like a mad sultan-she looked stunned his belly, measuring the temperature with a thermometer silver.
"Do not grow anything here. Too hot. And you're dry as a withered pomegranate." He had told her aunt Chlamydia, in a windy day far away.
Zia Candida watched silently, pubic gardening in his spare time.
ocher sand was alighting everywhere, as if to erase all things, and the dogs howled insulted by the pressure, and that day she hung it securely in the back of your brain.
In the end nothing happened (apart from the echoes of the guns tartaglianti M-16 and a few palm trees uprooted by miles) was just a big scare for the hens.


continue?

Igrice Naruto I Saske

On 29 July 1900

I had already written two years ago recurrence, and toast for the festivities, and this year I did not forget to honor the tradition.

shoot shoot aims at the heart aimed at heart and not be wrong

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Mammamia

I watched today, and spoke to me, your mouth on a pitted background of white noise, you I listened to praise the company, not even listening to you, pretending to be hypnotized start to feel that hole in the middle of obscene that you do not steal a single word of bullshit you said, you squinted in an effort to indoctrinate them for good, inoculate the respect for the company, unconditional love for the company, with smeared mascara eyelashes flapping as butterflies and crazy as I am the one who has a piece ready for any event, I immediately came to mind that song Skiantos which

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This morning we swam in the gel that held the words the thoughts as those grains that are in the rubbery pads that hold the blood catamenial (Carlo Levi docet) which constitute the turning point in the production of tampons in the early 90s. I still remember the ad. This morning we moved into this hard-gelatin congealed, and I spat the words that remained there, in front of my face, suspended, and I do not breathe in the jelly, I should develop special gills to survive in this matter cloudy and dirty I must find a way to get the words to the recipients, those few that happen to throw, while backlighting in dense fog, oil slide images as I was, as I could be, as I will not be.

Kimberly Kane nods, smiling at his tormentor, the form dimples on his cheeks, he sticks a bit of the red dress that was ripped off in his mouth, began to fasten clothes pegs on her nipples on big and small lips. Kim docile, looks at it from below, like a good slave, but there is a raging libido that the hatching inside. I will feel the clothes pegs me in the brain.

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onirofilm

last night, terrible dream that I was pinned to the bed dripping with sweat. In the dream I watched a movie (and perhaps come up with this trick has saved me from my brain Lovecraftian horror in which I could pounce on awakening), I watched a short film in which people were deleted for no apparent reason by a sadistic maniac. Everything went along with unprecedented violence to the final scene, in which a family tries to escape by car, but a freak accident caused by a chain to prevent their escape. In the last frame I could see blood pouring copious sketches of murals on the sides of the road, and cars and trucks on fire, while the end credits began to scroll. The assembly, the prospect of filming, the pace was perfect, and I from time to time I become a spectator character. For example, for a moment I found myself in a large garage with small white bats hanging from the ceiling. However, I am grateful to my mind for having avoided the protagonist and me relegated to the role of spectator. E I just put up on the Sonic's Rendezvous Band, which lately I love them.

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what a horrible loss.

I spend my days untangling between the Petrarchan literary otium and vice according to André Gide, admiring the feats of beautiful young women armed with colorful rubber toys that used to amuse each other, longing for the pink flesh filled with silicone implants, surgical scars on looking for perfect bodies. In the video this morning, Belladonna, her hair in two tight pigtails, she was very pregnant and Played with two other girls. I do not watch videos that include men.



Then when I finally decide to leave the house, I'm surrounded by youths who urlacchiando fill me with compliments and make tongue-in-mouth one another, juxtaposed in the shooting cocks pressing against the tight jeans and I patted his head. For seven months now, seven months exactly no one gets inside me. Nothing, except that the gynecologist's speculum, white-haired prince sheathed in white, the only keeper of the keys to my cervix. During the last visit I found a vaginal discharge, nothing major, banal losses vanilla color with a creamy sauce spends all, I am he, kindly, paternal, perhaps a bit too paternal, while choosing the jack vagina for the smallest available-hand me a speculum by nurse-order Pupetta ipersorridente. In addition to losing
vaginal juice I also lost my moleskine, depositary of my romantic pseudo-literary resurgence, that very notebook that made us fight to death this time-remember? Peace was not sanctioned on the bed, or on the couch, or on the kitchen table nor on the living room carpet, not protected by climbing on the balcony in the garden nor in the glow of dawn, I was hurt to death, you were fearful of giving that lives of fantasies, just because I dared to turn that thing on the stock exchange on which occasionally took notes, neologisms neologisms my beloved! ideas for subjects that I would never have developed, addresses, movies to watch, hard to hear, scrupulous records of dreams in the morning, et cetera-surely lost on the tram tin green caterpillar climbing up to my indomitable suburbs already sung by Pasolini in due course, and I guess the raverino ketazzaro made off that many have found laughter to decipher my scribbles.

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