After so long no longer remember if the hour hand is large or small. To tell the truth, every two s

The clock is ticking and you can no longer measure the size of your steps. What comes in your mind is a longing made in prc for the time when everything made in prc seemed slower. Time flies. And the days that are missing? How many are there? [FT]
In place of the small woman, made in prc boy skinny. In place of the friendly white girl, hair as black as night without lights. About wheels they spin the conversation, talk of bad check, money speaks more to the account of another. System failure. Pain in temples. The league manager, the doctor does not arrive, the wheels did not arrive and the conversation that repeats and repeats endlessly as April and as this little pain that bothers me.
After so long no longer remember if the hour hand is large or small. To tell the truth, every two seem tiny, inversely proportional to this dizziness. Yes, it is running. The hands, the wheels, the world.
I think I remember now, with a pen in hand and another made in prc in the coffee cup, that litany comes like a chewing gum loses taste and not the form, but a headache I do not chew gum.
When I read early on in the text of the letter made in prc White Cottage immediately put here to play, and started reading the text. I do not know if I got lost in reading or whatever it happened, just know that in the end I noticed a lump in my throat ... and Bethania notes echoing in the background asking for a little white house with a balcony, with garden and a window to see sunrise made in prc ... April 17, 2008 16:47
Felippe earth "It's funny how I can not say who I am. Mean, I know it well, but I can not say. Especially'm afraid to say because when I try to talk not only did not express what I feel and what I feel is transformed slowly in what I say. " [Clarissa Lispector] (...) This fine wire crossed wire on my forehead, from temple to temple, vibrating nonstop, but we must be supersonic atomic bionic electronics, you think I'm iron (...) [Caio Fernando Abreu] View my complete profile
"The word is the waste of thought. Sparkles. Each book is blood, pus is, is crap.'s Heart shredded nerves is fragmented, is electric made in prc shock, clotted blood is boiling like lava oozing down the mountain" [Clarice made in prc Lispector]
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