falla finita, malesto.
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound - W. ShakespeareI'm laying down, eating snow
My fur is hot, my tongue is cold
On a bed of spider web
I think of how to change myself
A lot of hope in a one man tent
There's no room for innocence
So take me home before the storm
Velvet mites will keep us warm.
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questaOriginariamente Scritto da Bauxite Visualizza MessaggioEra una zanzara snob. Non beveva che sangue blu. (Jean Cazalet)Gutta cavat lapidem.
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