“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

E. Hemingway.
"París era una fiesta"

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

Nailed across the door of the bedrooms of my dreams

Well the day begins
You don't want to live
'Cause you can't believe
In the one you're with
'Cause you know her tricks
And you know her past
When she makes a face
You just have to laugh
And you feel like such a know-it-all
When you only want just a tiny girl
And you hope she'll sing.

So you turn around
Toward the tiny girls
Who have got no tricks
Who have got no past
Yea that's what you think
And you hope she'll sing...

La Remington vuela y canta, como una navaja contra una barba de acero. En sueños, hoy, te perseguirá el teclear: es el precio de besar a un hada.

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¡Habla, pueblo de Aura!