So So So strangely nervous. After days and days of hanging and enjoyable serenity books and friends and hugs and beers (and bread and carasau Galbanino I find that to be my favorite dish) and not to miss anything, yum yum, throughout the twentieth century painting in Rome and unscheduled exit from the A1, now I believe abused a coffee and happiness, I feel his hands trembling and my food, vicious cycle of nicotine in spades.
said that I would need a makeover complete physical and lots of waxing, but, alas, only laziness and thoughts abound and books to read, as well as enormous amounts of black pens and notebooks.
This does not mean that I do not feel full of energy and spin enough to suspect a plurigemina gestation of ideas. In fact, I feel particularly
receptive and would gladly head space between the heart and stomach in otium creative days in contrast to hours of boring PCs and various corporate and any happy hour in the spring. This
in good company, it said.
Given the impossibility of this practice, at least as I understand it and that is "total", I'll settle for scraps of the day from which emerges, however, a bit 'dazed and jerky (I repeat: I will have to significantly reduce the amount of caffeine in my blood ).
From here I do not look so similar to my nineteenth of the same name, in fact, but on closer inspection, apart from reading pseudo-science literally on a mysterious source of the legendary fellatio Emilia, exceed in classicism Rococo and lyrical, and it does not know whether to training or DNA, the fact is, they are anachronistic and largely elegiac.
So this is the problem ... how to find a story in this chaos of stilnovisti? This mortify me a few days. Because I have a incipit, I say. But a starting
of what?
Meanwhile, my horoscope promises wonders and all foreign to me a lot.
said that I would need a makeover complete physical and lots of waxing, but, alas, only laziness and thoughts abound and books to read, as well as enormous amounts of black pens and notebooks.
This does not mean that I do not feel full of energy and spin enough to suspect a plurigemina gestation of ideas. In fact, I feel particularly
receptive and would gladly head space between the heart and stomach in otium creative days in contrast to hours of boring PCs and various corporate and any happy hour in the spring. This
in good company, it said.
Given the impossibility of this practice, at least as I understand it and that is "total", I'll settle for scraps of the day from which emerges, however, a bit 'dazed and jerky (I repeat: I will have to significantly reduce the amount of caffeine in my blood ).
From here I do not look so similar to my nineteenth of the same name, in fact, but on closer inspection, apart from reading pseudo-science literally on a mysterious source of the legendary fellatio Emilia, exceed in classicism Rococo and lyrical, and it does not know whether to training or DNA, the fact is, they are anachronistic and largely elegiac.
So this is the problem ... how to find a story in this chaos of stilnovisti? This mortify me a few days. Because I have a incipit, I say. But a starting
of what?
Meanwhile, my horoscope promises wonders and all foreign to me a lot.
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