Hmong Cheater 2 Movie

Service The picture is mine

I do not care about the ocean. Neither the memory. I did not care or even know your name. Or maybe: I care about your name but I imported your potential names, your promises and failures, your curious tenderness. I cared that sweet sensation of the distance. Our distance was infinite, but it was ours. Our codes, our thoughts, our loneliness. Our solitude was once began to mumble prayers willing to encounter. It was she who invited us glasses of writing.

I also care that brief moment you two can come together and can look one bit regardless of all the oceans in between.

I find I care. I did not care

you were next.

Your eyes are never met you but I already looked. In it a strange balance of nostalgia and affection, pride and friendship. An enigma (fiction always posed as organic). An equation (in which the sum of all suspected delivers a microcosmic result).

Your eyes are not but it is the order of your words and meaning that can be seen behind them like the little thread of a sweater to pull everything returns to its original shape ball of yarn, a figure which is it a promise, with all the possibilities of creation that can be made depending on the wisdom of the weaver. So it is with you: you promise and reveal novelarte up to me the best way possible. Sometimes I do and not what you say. Others made it clear it no matter what you may think beyond the other hand, the land where dusk falls each heat wave here.

A lead.

Know that the sun shines here in a hostile manner at certain times of day, no matter which falls half an hour after a shower.

And no, this is not Edinburgh or Lisbon, the weather here has always been stable until a few years ago, before I knew you, before everything changed and suddenly at the same time began to live four different climates in one political entity .

is that everything changes , once told me outside a coffee. We walked and we saw some swallows flying in the square to a strawberry and again at the center of the square and I remembered a poem I wrote years ago in which he spoke of pigeons. We saw some elderly couples hugging, also had children chasing bubbles. We did not know if it was Coyoacán or Almenara but you and I were talking about time and movement. We saw the clouds move and not yet fall. I was lousy metaphors coming to work. You talked to me American names I never knew. When you reach the Avenida de la Paz we turned right to go for some ice cream.