But that world 'ever this, when a father kills two angels in miniature like those, for not being able to face the dark side of a love gone?
What a world of shit can 'never be this when everything seems to break sooner or later, even the things more 'beautiful, like glass beads on the Christmas tree that no longer transmit attaccatutto' together?
Each with our box of pain under his arm, walks like lost souls in search of a 'unlikely redemption, a redemption for things done wrong, never said those to the right person and for those called to wrong people. For too many things that have never made them or when you had made the wrong face and measures and the timing just wrong.
stubbornly wrong aim. We aim at a target all around we see that even good. We are bad for our shooters never enough arrows. We arm hurts at the moment at which the bow was stretched to the limit just to shoot the arrow decisive. O with wooden swords against the beast that we carry inside.
bad thing. Maybe in the name of love, which should be good and sweet, but instead kill and does kill the insane who have not been able to smash and beat the demon that lived in them and not before them.
While listening to the radio an old romantic song I try to emerge in me a bit 'of anger, which dominates this very sad pity' for those who do not have it done and who did not find the hand of God to stop her a moment before of rejection.
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