Nada parece estar roto hoy (sólo la voz del que llega tarde).

domingo, 29 de agosto de 2010

I cannot disguise all the stomach pains and the walking of the canes when you do come out. And you whisper up to me in your life of tragedy. But I cannot grow till you eat the last of me. Oh when will I be free.. and you, a parasite, just find another host, just another fool to roast.

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