listening to elvis presley... good old times. don't miss them that much 'cause i know they were exactly what they needed to be. but now i am thinking about another old times, not so old like listening to elvis presley on my grandma's house. that was home, for sure...

always here looking to the landscape where you were, trying to guess what was your steps long before. i know those places just to looking through your eyes, and you even dont know that i did it.

may i be dreaming all this time? for sure not. for sure yes. for sure both. and for sure maybe...

who will never read this is the who i ever wanted to know who i am. and is, indeed, the person who knows me more than anyone. you saw me nude, you saw me dressed in dreams, you saw me smiling and crying...

and here i am, writting for everyone just because i must not write directly to you. i did it before and now i will do it for many times more and more.

i like to put this on these terms, to publish an inner feeling translated in a foreign language, as i said in a small talk with you, i feel so confortable writing in a language i hate. it is so... strange.

always borderlined.

i am so sick of all of it and i persist, i will live and do the things better. i just wanted to show you how good i am, once i saw your goodness.

this is a poor text. a sick text. a passionated text. a dying text. i am leaving nothing behind, not even footsteps.

the man in black runs through the desert and the gunslinger followed...