The Gray Lady
Let me cry . Let me show you, through the power and elegance of Italian chamber music and pianoforte orchestrated key, how my parents made essential negligence, trapped by the copula, and damn endless mirrors and stays infinitely evil breed of men where they believed their secundogénito conceive, but it was not because the wind broke the close of my room and made me discover the slippery snow and gentle. And what sadness on his background passionate union, what need of bodies are mechanically fit and managed briefly to the world, if perfection is impossible and everything is synchronized chaos and ephemeral white wonder, if, as I was saying, I beheld the wonder befell first and then last time, snow is slippery and gentle metaphor for life. I said goodbye to them, I saw enmadejados, trementes and sweaty in his inevitable attraction, but no, I still did not understand that life began in this union, that union is the trap also because self-absorbed lovers, there is no world establishing their erogenous points and their endings genitals.
No, I only understood the inherent friction and adequate cold and extremely fleeting this life is treacherous white, which makes slipping from severe sills and makes us stop, endless and incomprehensible falling in snowy bloody bed now, yes, blood and snow (in the background, fire and water), why not give beautiful if you understand the latest death in my body and the first to be given after the other, in my parents, who will rub the soft, padded madness, you will wonder why their selfishness would not let them hear the attempts and snares of the Gray Lady, which entered in my room with the treacherous wind, that they were arrogant and believed that the world was beating in rhythmic pulsations, if the world is always out, as this is not comfortable, warm home of London's West End, if the world is filmed in black and white, but in the color of the wind and the fragile record of the snow.
And I fall, I keep falling over the seconds, minutes and hours throughout the excruciating and agonizing eternity psychic destruction bodily and unaware they are still there, trapped in that black and postmodern black, and I, in those brief seconds, I had the world in my hands: the pulse of the wind and the purity of untouched snow, the memory of unconsciousness and misery of bodies. I knew what was the world of betrayal, knew what it was life with only a year and a half of existence.
PETRUS Romanus
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