is over. seemed eternal, immense, endless. I wake up this morning and no more. and who expected it? I no longer feel her scent, which once gave meaning to my days. lead into a deep despair This Sunday will mark indelibly sad sad as my boxer shorts in bright colors. I Went down into the bed of melancholy, and worth a look volubly box useless. the shutter down half-lets in the warm rays of a morning adult, I am invited, but declined every courtship. I sink my face in the pillow and almost bit into it, almost crying, shaking hands with the head of the bed. from the bone comes out of not thinking a thought, I set out to write a Bash against the table, with the result, nevertheless bloody tones, to pass on his back a day Mezzomorto unconscious. mathematically can not predict whether that means, in the sense of symmetric part of one, can become the unit, all, so logic suggests to me that at least the game is not worth the candle. light a candle, vanilla, only for poetic creativity. abandon the supine position and the thalamus and the audience complicit triumphs, tragedies giustappunto and dream journeys. after a brief scuffle with the force of gravity is perfectly upright on two legs. in a manly impulse, do a little scratching to the Netherlands, who promptly sent me an ambassador who does not carry penalties. I got up, I'm not awake. inspected the unmade face in the glass of the cupboard, but I do not trust. too unrealistic reflections that come to my eyes still on the danger list. vague for the kitchen, which does not seem the same. this is too cumbersome new absence. I had to prepare, one day, such a miserable event. how could I be so careless, so blind, superficial?! is a sun damage and the bells did not help me to provide any solutions. I'm lost, desperate, practically in their underwear. I dress. I stumble in my and her clothes. the curse. but I say ... what? back in the kitchen with his hands in his hair pseudo-traumatic feline daughter of awakenings. stagger, but not wet. I am going to open the fridge for a last desperate attempt, when she surrounds me from behind and kisses me back. a voice that only I can tell from that when it is drunk, turns me candidly, 'Honey, expecting me for breakfast ?....' Then I turned and found the despair that darkly painted my face, he continues, 'Hey, what's the matter? Do not tell me who died Flappy! '. 'No, quiet, the cat is ok, but not kill me if I tell you that it's over the supply of coffee ... ... ...'
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