...finito pero no estático depósito del descarado intento de artista que soy...
The sun painted all my silly dreams with obvious colours. I couldn't forget the sense of his parfume. I am like wondering all the time what life holds for me. What am I playing at? I always try to do the right thing. And even then I feel so weird, always so weird, in this crazy world. I wish I'd be a pianist. That could confort the huge wound there's on my soul.
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