Cake Sayings For Thank You.

And that time stops. UGGS Boots

These cold days, those days are silent, gloomy and rainy.

These days you look out the window the feeling protected by the echo of being behind the glass, watching as time passes, like a movie we were just watching.

are those days when you remember the bad and good times, and also the people who accompanied you in these moments so important to you.

One of those days those who miss one of those people, who feel even closer to you as though time has passed there are times when it seems that everything is as it used to be and that nothing has changed.

That day you need to shout, dance and run in the rain. You need to look at him in front of forgetting the words, feeling that is and will be with you forever.

Hopeless They want to kiss you.

Templates For Boats For Dt

Letter to cry






"Letter to a scream or cry ?
There are differences. I know.

Let's start again.








Dear cry


If, by the time estimated who knows, then, when in fact scream, I wanted more than estimated, but the respect will remain the same.


I write well, treating you, because a cry that is sound in the throat, not drowning in it, which comes from inside soul tearing and leaving open chest, should be a great cry, a rending cry, a cry that fills the entire universe.


And my cry, you know, breaking silences and absences. Open spaces, pushing winds and tornadoes ago.


My cry is a cry that echoed leaves between the sun and the moon, between the sea and these mountains around me, roaring between storms impossible to appease, by eternal, immense, for human being in such dehumanization.


sir I am writing cry, because for some time to wander between sanity and without reason, a time when I heard, where a tombstone that imprisons me against the land without owners, that makes me bite my teeth and open the pit to me already contains.


So cry, cry to see if my voice reaches somewhere and it returned me the life I have lost a day. You sir cry, the one that now can make my heart burst I hear thunder and it is divided among the stars.


I come up here, and as if by magic I look at the picture of Edvard Munch, diluted in half of the colors that look like hell from the other voices are silent not quiet, living in the limbo of a river that runs into any delta, to any ocean.


So I say goodbye to you, right now, farewell, now you want a little more, because the word is confused with relief cry springing from the soul, fluttering like butterflies dragonflies, fireflies, chips, amid this cry of mine who left me with ... myself.








I .

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. Add

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