the anguish of famous men and talented manages to be painted in verse: transmuting pain into the stream, the flow of ink, the ink in the press, glory and immortality.
my anxiety was the only form of a red beast with 6 strings, or some time even the novelty of a paper bag and light them tirabile; have anxiety and do not have the talent, maybe I can not imagine a worse fate .
and now, a healthy night's sleep.
leaving behind all this shit.
goodnight all.
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