There was a story that was not yet born. The small, fragile as the role that dress someday, I spent entire afternoons imagining what would your pages. He aspired to great and illustrious lyrics, solid arguments, sophisticated terms, critical success.
The story dreamed, planned and thought about their existence beyond (beyond what I knew, which is more or less what know more here). And boy was no easy task! For a story without form or content is almost no story.
And so that afternoon (the afternoon) the creature walked very quiet street in the world of the books yet but unborn babies. Sometimes starting a conversation with one of their fellow citizens, but never could finish it as God intended because they could not anticipate it disappeared. The moons changed as one changes from perfume, and night after night was the dew on your skin because more was less protected, more alone. The story of the imminent future with eyes looking up there and wondered why he never chose. Expected without knowing what was coming. Trusted without reading the lines of its future.
All this happened while I was thinking about how to make a story. As tested combinations and see that no result, I also felt more alone and less protected. But in an invisible magic moment I found out, and did find out that story and this are the same. Today I read while I write, and he knows right and is read. And meanwhile in the world of books unborn unborn but expect other jasmines ...
The story dreamed, planned and thought about their existence beyond (beyond what I knew, which is more or less what know more here). And boy was no easy task! For a story without form or content is almost no story.
And so that afternoon (the afternoon) the creature walked very quiet street in the world of the books yet but unborn babies. Sometimes starting a conversation with one of their fellow citizens, but never could finish it as God intended because they could not anticipate it disappeared. The moons changed as one changes from perfume, and night after night was the dew on your skin because more was less protected, more alone. The story of the imminent future with eyes looking up there and wondered why he never chose. Expected without knowing what was coming. Trusted without reading the lines of its future.
All this happened while I was thinking about how to make a story. As tested combinations and see that no result, I also felt more alone and less protected. But in an invisible magic moment I found out, and did find out that story and this are the same. Today I read while I write, and he knows right and is read. And meanwhile in the world of books unborn unborn but expect other jasmines ...
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