Brazilian Wax For Women Pic

had to rewrite the simple things. I fear the shadows caused by Antonio Bellet, every day after nine. Learning to describe how he knows the mayonnaise, how to smell the flowers of the tent next to the market, where buying sunflowers to take from time to time and coves for me when tulips were lucky. He had to write about the love I have them all three, on the luck I have when I look and I look and see you almost the same. He had to write about the cold winter that makes me, except this fall that only seems to want cold hands. He had to write about you, him, me and everyone else who saw in the subway, on the micro and walking down the street while reading the newspaper and was littered with bad ink quality and they said the square was absolutely filthy face. He had to write about my few enemies, on the fear of abandonment but the taste for solitude and chocolates and buns. He had to write about all the walks and naps in the afternoon, waking up when the light is blue and we belonged. Now I no longer own, you can get to the share it because I like the bright, clear hours, as hours fall. I had to re-write on the yellow flowers that I liked so much on the phone I lost in Providence Park and on the response I got from Italy and Barcelona, \u200b\u200bso many years ago, with pen glass and Gabriela brought me blue-purple ink to dye my fingers ended and my dad when we wanted to skip the notary. He had to write about nostalgia, but I have not. On all the oranges with which sleep, with the smells that take me from car to car looking for evidence, cotton, fresh laundry. He had to write about what I read, about the book I won for writing football and everyone thought I was a child, for the fans, about half read Proust on the beach after the tequila and sketching trips in the Sandy, walking three hours to buy junk and return by bus and arrive in twenty minutes. He had to write about Buenos Aires and Mail July 15, on the cheap wine on the night when the obelisk screaming, drunk and Sergio, Virginia, Patrick and others, flying button, the holder and indigestion. Inconclusive about the loves, the finite, which at times go around and disappeared without a trace, silent. He had to write about the three dogs and two cats, about the shouting and shaking at midnight and the doors, windows that move and neighbors. He had to write about everything I had to do a summary and remember to re-write. I had to start tomorrow. Morning.