What you feel when there is life to exist even when you're alone, that even in a glass, I do not remember.
A read me, you'd think I'm sad, I should be but I am not, I do not feel that I would only tend, I do feel that what it reflects through the eyes of people ... but not all, only those who are still alive, prey prey ... very interested in, and by faith extremely attractive, with whom I feel sadness or joy, or love that prey I hate, but I always end up burning.
I write, I draw, I talk, I kiss, I left my room in the morning to exist, but what do I do to exist when no one reads what I write when no one is watching what I draw when I'm alone?
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