is not yet the time to read, that hour has struck for you different.
Look at my stacks of future readings, scattered six words in a table and fold a corner shelf fed balanced.
Our real, unique, can match begins between those pages.
will then hear the final and overwhelming lack of a real pen never a slave to any umilizione.
Look at my stacks of future readings, scattered six words in a table and fold a corner shelf fed balanced.
Our real, unique, can match begins between those pages.
will then hear the final and overwhelming lack of a real pen never a slave to any umilizione.
(José Saramago November 16, 1922 - June 18, 2010) are finally high joys,
the glowing auroras, the quiet nights,
is the longed-for peace, harmony, and redemption
of the fruit and the flower of souls.
Let them come, my love, because these days I'm tired
mortal
of anger and agony
and nothing.
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