What comes to mind to just say the word LOVE? Old forgotten stories in the drawer of a distant memory now, which knob was the feeling and the force exerted in pulling the idea dreamed of a person and the effort to get it. Now how can you even think about love? Lucky those who still can not. A few among many, hidden among the embarrassment of an alleged inferiority, as if love was really a shame. Thanks for doing that to become such. Catullus has spent his life behind a pig who gave it to him after an hour with 5 or 6 Patrizi orgione whoremongers. Dante has made another gut of Our Lady of the fourteenth century: the light, the direction of heaven. Yet it was a first-class whore. But they loved. Who have wrote entire works on these fie. Yet look at you, little men of the XXI century, numbers in registers, to prostrate fetish power of television, programs deleterious to the gossip magazines, curiosities, chronic unhappiness, to never be satisfied with anything or anyone, as these two poor deluded, fathers and patrons of his memory and idea, where they arrived. And you get where you think? Boast of having "fie Buhato more than a sewing machine a rag" or to have changed its Bernarda (term sweet, almost endearment, to describe the female genitalia) in the Mont Blanc?
I'll tell you to do, I care the Journal. When you 60 years and a reckless Buzza say this (as I heard today from someone who seemed Giuliano Ferrara without a beard): "I took three Russian and we did un'orgione ... (pause to laugh) ... AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (Rantolo reminding an earth slightly, from Gorgias ovatatto vocalism rightly under-chin). But as you are 'lover, I thought.
Not to mention ignorant que'budelli who speak nothing but Chazz (coll'acca, otherwise a trumpet the taste would be regrettable that who knows what), clothes and crap like that soundtrack worthy of the duck noises at St. James Park. - swans, distinguished for its elegance and beauty, in fact, are silent. "Not talk about that quite false "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooo ..............." that arches high-flying in the air in response to something pseudo-striking, with a lot of right hand to move mo 'dough-in opens.
Oh well.
Love. It is enough. In the true sense of the word.
