Blonde Highlights Brown Extensions

Until four o'clock

Plague stretches out there.

Gobble lives.

Bebe senses.

is removed, rough piece with a toothpick to a morning that clung to their gums. And then running her tongue, with the NPL's own digestion, popping up all her mouth against the palate.

But

lights a cigarette.

not prepared coffee.

not even leans back in his chair, satisfied.

No.

soon Her lips twisted as it does a couple who can not fall asleep, together, separated, arching over the bed. With annoyance. With anxiety. Tired of sleep that never comes. As if it was their duty to do so.

is then confined his eyes what his next mouthful.

There's always a next bite.

Plague stretches out there.

No walls.

Ni borders.

This plague, is boredom.

same boredom that long ago, less than two years, I did give this newspaper. That same tedium of which wanted to use the Devil, urging them swipe your card to all those who frequent this little bar YPF. To all those who yawn, boring watching the couple next door, which annoyed alternate between vampire and neck turn to stay alive until four in the morning and then go to sleep out of telo spin.

The tedium of the desire to postpone the right time, are four in the morning, the weekend, the moment immediately after leaving work or term class.

It feeds the fever.

We too confident in the safe and predictable round the clock.

no time is correct now.

No other time, in fact.

fever And he knows it.

and takes another bite.

I have not save the world. Not hold in my hands a cure.

No.

Only

talks I walk among the dying. And of those who are not infected. As there are some, yes. Some who walk among the sick. They do it without masks or gloves or masks and music to pass the time or pill to have a burst of sugar and flavor or the cell phone game to amputate the distance between a subway station and one or unnecessary purchases or shake the leaves of a diary without ever stopping or send a text message just to have something to do or look out the window, so bad, I see no beyond the glass.

No.

For they are already being devoured by boredom.

I mean those who go without coats. Delivered. Those who play.

If I returned it for them and their stories.

Although advances, also haunt the stories of the dying. It would not be the melancholy that I am if I did.

I'm back, with a song under my arm. Enjoy

(It's later than you think).