Before starting to write, which seemed rather difficult in such a heat, I noticed the stretching green veins, burning like summer, walls and souls I saw her on paper, I don't remember anything but that she had blue eyes, I flirted with her despite my narcissism: "Do you see the sea? I fear it,Do you see your eyes? I want to drown"
She replied indignantly, placing the book on the wooden shelf:
"They are red now"
I answered:
"Then I will have to go to hell?"
"Go to hell then "
"Go to hell? Still, you look better than hot this summer." It
has vanished like a brilliant mist, that paradise has become nothing but a black dot on the horizon. That antique library held a dozen hot girls, just as this lonely corner looks, I've been picking a bunch of books as I do every Saturday, the titles are nasty and mean nothing, here where everything is cheap, where is the solitude and the narrow and the stinging yolk and The smell of old papers, I live sadly close to death, I lick the lines, absent-mindedly, I feel this pain in the back with throbbing in the chest, intestines and veins, I remember something, though my mind is heavy with stones:
"Was her name Maria?
"I don't know who said."
"Who cares at all?" "I
don't really know, but Maria, oh Maria, is a name fitting for a girl as young as spring."
Despite all the hustle and bustle in my head, I keep it for her"
The indoor butterfly screams:
"I hope she is not a bitch like maria" I wonder:
"Who is she?"
"Maria from a novel by Paulo Coelho"
"I don't know, she looks warm, it doesn't matter if she's a whore, well who's fucking care?"
YOU ARE READING
Hellvean
RomanceLiterally no one knows that writing has a complex relationship with madness, do you think that one enjoys headaches, tingling, bubbling, and painful loneliness, no one does or at least I don't.. You are skinny, miserable, lonely, and crazy about wri...
