Pacciani I was in the house. Indeed, the first wife of the monster, if there was more than one. The setting out of the shack was one of those compulsive southern, barren and scorched by the sun. Unique furniture, a stone bearing the name of the woman corroded. These nightmares are starting to get tired. The drama on the monster of Florence I saw six months ago, and made me laugh even as he was hurt. Especially for the rubber face crumpled Ennio Fantastichini. The nightmare has made me get up at noon today. Being unproductive gives an alibi to my desire for atonement. I have reason to punish me for refusing the fun, but who says to my queer party-friends? The only entertainment I concede that private vice is watching my favorite dolls in action, "with all those arrows of gold that would conflict on several occasions, so deeply to go as far to the bowel. A romance so sweet. "The only ecstasy that I feel I deserve now.
As St. Teresa of Avila who dreams the Scandicci Chainsaw Massacre. But let's favor.
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