Sign my love. His voice is soft quiet now, knows the ways of healing to be more fragrant and fresher than dressings of any sort (if this pain under the arms will not go away, stop). And yet I concentrate.
The same ritual cleansing and physical cleansing have remained in me, firm and unchanging, over the years, decades can say with pride alone acumulatoria princess (what else I would, indeed, that mutate decades for months, new life, seen only by softness sheets) stink in its dryness. Which requires almost blatant desperation, the fruition of the oily cream in the glove horsehair, the smell delayed childhood summers in neighboring oil sunbathing, but the skin does not respond the same way. And more frightening, as under the skin becomes kaleidoscopic colors, stains feast again, again, infinite colors at scales from the legs, but at least it's nice to extend other ointments, fondling the twins, to investigate how the quake paralyzed for ground body calm. The body is recomposed himself deeply Apollonian ritual, the shrine of marble, the figure can not ever be loved, as reflected in the corners but at least comforted, at least indulged in its case and lying and no rush for silence, comforted in their nakedness, in the latter film of moisture and ointment, seeking collection of a single package that voice before that go to cradle her.
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