and the words and my love would be a triumphal arch a four hundredth of a century ago it was snowing. Not photographed sky. In Rome, no one died of love. Sinking in rivers of asphalt was no Plan B to Plan A. The specific weight of my introspection was devastating. A four hundredth of a century ago was a million years ago.
The whole world was shocked by the atomic esplosini. On the face of the Earth, the oceans were gone and the plains looked like bleak deserts. a four hundredth of a century ago it was blue. Everywhere there were people who died did not die. People who died did not die. People who died did not die. And I was no exception. A four hundredth of a century ago was Friday 17, and Jason smiled at us.
Too often I wonder why, but every time I use the right to remain silent. Gone are the bell'autunno most of my life. But it is never too late to start smoking. Looking at the calendar, the winter I winked. And peaceful is the most widespread of the clouds. 
Visualizza 
