write these letters by way of a , reflection, behind my feeling ... I always thought that the pursuit of justice was fair, perhaps because I had never followed about a case of murder of an innocent child. Truth has three thousand rooms, it is true, I had discussed with Walter for those days, conversation and intellectual sources, now have been dispelled, for leaving the other side. Always on my hand, later that a hand that is mixed with mine and form a hand, and go to Oliver Girondo well as explicit in the poem dichotomy bloodless.
There is a kind of period .... is a kind of desert in these shady efforts to dialogue, which does not lead anywhere ...... is a kind of bitterness, disappointment ... vacuum it tells you nothing of that other .... that leaves you swinging in the darkness of that to do nothing ....
always, I have been curious as vile lies and foolish for the sole purpose of concealing the human misery .... I've said a thousand times .... I'll be that stone? ... when that word of the Other ... goes the wind, and I feel nothing. The words and our actions converge and run in daily life, and I ?.... I was not me, it was kind of my absent, empty, hollow structure .. beardless distant ... .... As might believe, for the first time?, Or have doubted; once again!
And, as my friend the Shoppi (Shoppenhauer) Only we have a correct view on things past and an accurate forecast of the future, if not concern us at all, as in other cases, there is a kind of alarm, can not be bribed.
Actually, that word which is acclaimed as the sole and exclusive action and words together, is but part of an object over consumption of liquid life. You always say what you mean, the way to provoke to force ... to sink. There is no truth ... faces only the interpretation and it is all part of metaphors disguised, crying and fake apology .... is human, says Nietzcshe .... Human, All Too Human!
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