Through the city Dad's on the bike, so cleave the sunset on the strips toward the sun. As arrow flies in the air, that caress the skin, perhaps rebellious thrill that the wind will change. The hull is confused like the roar of the engine asphalt, in the heat and among the self hides because he will never come back. Everything hurtling between lampposts all the same gray and brown, They do not stop the guns, I fail to see the pigeons Night and see me.
Umberto F. M. Cefalà
22/07/11
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