"Claudio Souza: Rejected by his mother and stepfather and without bearing the beatings of his father, fled from his father's house not to be beaten, because they were beatings followed by beatings, Claudio Souza made the streets his new home. Between the cold, the hunger and the abandonment, it ripened quickly. He knew hell and then heaven. It was through the hands of Fatima that he came out of the mud. He got some clothes, a pair of shoes, a roof, and the principal a job. While growing up at work, I was discounting the time lost.
For Claudius, AIDS was a problem 'from others', it would never happen to him. From 18 to 30 years ago, 'ran after injury'; Every day I went out with a girl. As for AIDS, 'get caught, get caught,' he used to say. He lost his job, his house, his friends ... But he raised his head and rediscovered the dignity and value of life after becoming a HIV positive ... "
The photo is of 1969 when I was five. I do not know why, but I have the impression that the look of that child, who in truth was I ever could, somehow, see, on the horizon, the huge storm that would raise sobrebre you someday ...
My story is, I think, very common. The fact is that I know some people who have passed the same path and are out there touching life. I left home when I was a child, twelve years old, unable to bear the violence of my father; I went to find my mother, who had run away from home two years earlier, after an adventure, something less suffered than life with her husband that she was taken to be married not to be returned to an orphanage.
A sordid story that begins with a "man" left waiting for the bride ... at the altar ... (she must have had at least a premonition - still good for her)
Maybe a Vision
Perhaps the vision of a spirit who loved her and made the right decision by evading marriage, perhaps to achieve a possible possibility of happiness at a time when the marriage was really a draconian contract of adherence to a life in which he would always be the inferior figure.
Unworthy of attention, worthiness, and, the vow, was always equal to that of the husband.
It seemed natural for me to seek her, her refuge, her lap, her affection, her protection ...
But I remember well that my possible stepfather (hangman) told her (I woke up) she would not take it, at his house ....
Son of a son of a bitch no ... My mother (it is assumed that she would be the whore ...).
And she, always humble in character, accepted this with the submission that was always her own when something was convenient for her.
And he led me to the streets, where I lived for five years, between cold, hunger, crime, discrimination, abuse of every order.
To a point that was simply surreal and that nobody could finish believing ...
"You have to love people like there's no tomorrow."
LOVE ... WHAT IS ...?
I will not tell every winter, every day and every hour; each one imagine for himself what life on the streets is.
But I assure you that no one leaves without the help of another.
No one escapes from hell alone, without help.
You may even survive indefinitely in hell, alone, but to get out of there, you will undoubtedly need help.
It's a vicious circle where you can not get the things you need because you do not. He has no home because he has no work; he has no job because he does not take a shower; he does not take a shower because he does not have a house and so he goes, like a motorcycle.
But for me there was this someone. My somebody, my angel, was a woman.
Of these that the absence of popular wisdom calls "woman of life" or "woman of easy life" (go there live this life and you will know how easy it is).
There was a nun or a lady of the benevolent society, or a lady of the league spiritist or wife of an evangelical pastor.
He was a prostitute.
This label leave because of you that read and discriminate. I even call her Angel.
He gave me a place to sleep, to take a shower, two pants, three shirts and a pair of tight shoes (I will never forget the tightness of those shoes and the joy with which I wore them) that he bought in a used store.
And the main thing: he got me a dishwashing job at a nightclub in Sao Paulo - the Louvre - which he has already closed for at least ten years.
Was poor - life was cruel to her - my Fatima. Someone, for whatever reason, burned her face with acid. They say revenge.
I do not know what kind of acid I never cared to know why.
I know the damage was great, and a person who lives by selling his favors needs to be beautiful, has to be attractive.
A black spot covering 50% of her face and part of one of her breasts did not help much and everything was very difficult for her. Fatima faced difficulties, even an epilepsy that, according to her, was a consequence of the attack she underwent.
And he faced many humiliations, from clients and from service colleagues.
This all did not serve as an obstacle to it. Did what he could, and certainly not what I was able to rebuild the minimum level of human dignity.
This angel came and went out of my life like lightning. Three or four months. He disappeared without saying goodbye and without giving me the opportunity to thank him.
He left the laundry note and paid one month's worth of laundry at a certain hotel in the trash can.
I thank you here and hope that you will read to me, remember me and know that I am grateful to you, that I have never forgotten you and that I will never forget you, nor could you.
I do not even know if his name was actually Fatima or whether it was a fictitious name.
This has always made my searches for her.
Very difficult and with no tangible results.
I never saw her again.
The Eternal Question
Since then I wonder who was really my mother, in whose womb dwelt whose milk and took one or other (...) that the company reneged and labeled as wanted after use as well understood ...
I have never been able to come to a definite conclusion about this.
But it does not matter. It interests what she did.
The fact is that, having regained my dignity, I regained consciousness.
And that made me think.
Thinking, I hated my mother with all the strength of my being.
To the most sensitive souls who clash with this statement, I offer my five years of darkness, fear, cold and hunger as a reasoning parameter. Maybe it should be enough.
If that's not enough, I offer the punches and kicks I've changed, often, to secure a sandwich.
Hate is a feeling like no other, and to be extinct, or something that requires time to compensate.
Many years went by like this, without worrying whether my biological mother lived or not, whether she was right or wrong, I cared little for her fate.
It was a question of reciprocity:
Her indifference to mine.
It seems fair to me. Very fair. Exactly. José Wilker (in memorian).
But this same indifference was buried hatred and hurt, the pain, the fear, the anguish of knowing me without mother, without origins.
At the nightclub, it was not long before she became friends.
Within a year, I was the house soundman.
Actually, the sleep-aid helper (is what they call DJ today).
Many girlfriends, every day a different, I never noticed any.
I think I certainly tried to compensate for the time lost, the lack of affection and affection, the lost years of my adolescence.
I packed in this madness and never stopped. Between 18 and 30 years old.
All I did was "chase after injury".
I knew, I always knew, about the existence of AIDS. He had seen some people die "of it", completely excluded from the group to which they belonged.
But I thought it was a problem of others and it would never happen to me, but there was one thing I thought about: if I "fucked up." Fuck you.
Well, I ended up just like that, fucked up ... (...).
Notice you that I can say this from me to me and from me to you.
If you try to say this about me you will discover that I can be much worse than anything I have ever experienced when it is to defend myself, the people and things I love and, fundamentally, to demand RESPECT.
But before I got hurt, I had fun and I was happy bangs (in a way, I still am!).
I used to change my girlfriend every day, and sometimes more than once a day.
And for those of you who think I'm counting "gooseberry", the guy with the strange color camisole is me, in a 25 version years ago, when I got to the position of a radio broadcaster, entitled to a Press Portfolio.
In this video, there is a person whom I loved as a parent and, in a way, he was that to me.
By instilling the foundations of the concepts of morality and ethics, responsibility and respect.
Which I could only truly establish in my life after the HIV diagnosis.
I stitched my path up to the diagnosis like a mad run, where I had been ignoring the signage until I had broken everything into a wall, and after the wall had a sign, written like this:
WE HAVE GOT THROUGH A WALL HERE ...
I turned away from him the day I had the absolute and irremediable certainty that he was ashamed of me.
That's because I assume my carrier status and HIV and, based on that, a lot that could help it have been made to improve this job has not been done.
This is because he prays for the booklet that teaches that patients represent failure.
My girls, My Victims
Some do not even remember her face. Other, keep at least the name. But there were some that marked my life as much as her, my angel, differently, but flawless.
Simone, Flávia, Dayse, Cassia, Paula, Ana Claudia, Claudia Vieira, Laura (a separate case), Raquel, Débora, Teresa (mother of my daughters - two, Potira I loved each of them passionately and, I believe, I was loved by them as much as a man who, according to themselves, could ever have belonged to a woman.
Not all left happy. Some went out of my life at war with myself and life. But life and war have something in common that I can not separate ...
But there was, in particular, someone who was called Gabi ...
Ah! Gabi other ... What you do not know the existence. What is between us what happened between us.
You who kidnapped me a dangerous morning, made my life a roller coaster full of surprises, joys, disorders, kisses, hugs, lights of all colors and shades, bells of all shades ...
You who loved me and who left suddenly as the sonnet. You, whom I loved like never before loved and taught me that we do not have anyone, just share moments and I have always been faithful and true, to the extent that might have been loyal and faithful, free of charge, without expecting anything that was not understanding, complicity and affection. I was his accomplice, you were my goddess, and walked a long time, side by side, staring at the horizon, looking for something we never knew what it was ...
I suffered a bit when you left, you know, you remember ... but is that ... If I still take your taste, certainly shalt taste of me ...
Because I was in a hurry.
But I played life forward, kept on listening to my records, enlivening my balls, kissing my girls, enjoying life with my friends, sometimes in the daytime, until almost noon.
A crazy life full of ups and downs, loves and dislikes, affections and discontents, buildings and ruins.
But I was disillusioned with the night, which no longer offered what I was accustomed to expect from it.
The night changed, ceased to be a romantic thing and became a banal trade in bodies and drugs. It made me sad.
It was not what I wanted out of life. Maybe it was not the night that changed.
Maybe it was me who changed the way I saw the night.
Installing the Virus
And along the way, somewhere, with so many blunders, a virus is installed on me silently and began his work. I knew nothing.
My dissatisfaction with everything made me want to change my life, wanted an alternative and could not find it.
At 30 years, met Simone. She, a woman from another world, get up at six in the morning and worked all day. We were the sun and moon, I was the moon ... It was interesting to wake her up at six in the morning with a thousand jokes and jokes, making her smile and leave early, excited to work until six in the evening, when I found her and we walked up to the time I go to work.
At this time, she emburrava and said: "Claudius, this does not give future. You must change your life. "
It was she who introduced me to this entity, the computer, and I spent the first rudiments of the art of using it even without understanding. It was the beginning of change, it would be gradual, painful, difficult, but I would do for love. However, she did not have the patience to wait this transformation and left me on a Saturday night without explanation.
All that remained was the memory of a novel quick, torrid, crazy, passionate ... It marked me deeply. I've loved this woman, and when I lost, I was very ill with depression.
At first diagnosed influenza. I tried as influenza during 28 days. It was a viral meningitis. Entry Dei Hospital Bandeirantes between life and death and remained hospitalized a good time there. The doctor, I can not remember the name, asked me permission to do the HIV test. In that state, I authorize anything and when I awoke on November 13 1994 at 15h43 me the result I expected:
The world collapsed for me. I discovered, in seconds, that all was lost, that in a few days I would dry like a plant in a vase without water and die.
I fear, panic and terror. I knew nothing about the disease. Only that it was fatal, that would kill within months. I had never cared about the news about AIDS; in fact, I did not know it was a problem of others. I cried and thought about killing myself, but I thought the least I could be expected from me was the support with courage whatever was to come.
So, as you see, do not kill me. I decided to wait and endure the consequences of my irresponsibility of my carelessness. It was the least to do: stand with decency the consequences of my carelessness.
I remembered that, shortly before, I had a girlfriend, we had never used a condom (Simone). I thought I killed her, it was my fault and mine alone.
It did not occur to me that it could have been she who transmitted the disease to me. It was a palpable hypothesis, but I did not see it.
He knew he had to talk to her, warn her, give her the opportunity to know and prepare for her best.
It was very close to Christmas and I decided to wait until the year was over. It was a hard bar to wait so long.
This, time made a point of crawling.
I knew I had an obligation, a moral duty to alert her to the same opportunities I had to deal with and to fight for my life. But there was the fear of her reaction, of what I would hear from her, a person so dear, so loved.
After these holidays, I did not have the courage to speak.
Every day I made up a new excuse for myself and put it on for tomorrow. A friend, a dear friend, did this for me, in response to a request from me. He told me that he regretted the very moment he revealed to her what had happened to me, that it had been difficult to calm her and keep her on the axis.
But he did the exams and gave negative results, over and over again.
It was a great relief to me to know that I did not transmit the virus to her.
I do not think I could have borne that guilt.
She disappeared, she preferred to ignore me and forget.
All that he has done since then was to write me a letter, in which he said that he would keep the days and nights we spent together ...
IAZUL (everything goes by)
He also mentioned the intention to donate a basic basket every month to the support house where I came to live.
To hell with her and the basic basket.
He was very offended, but today it has passed, everything passes even to indifference.
By failing to maintain a stable relationship ever, I found myself alone, no friends, no one to support me by not having anyone who really loved me and I loved not know. I hid in fear and shame.
I lost my job, lost my house ... In fact, a hotel room, on Aurora Street. I was abandoned by friends who had supposed. Such is life. I'm not sure if I can trust people. They are like weather vanes and change over time. And this is unpredictable.
I live in safe houses, streets, and knocked his head a lot out there. But time passed and I did not die. Not dried up like a plant in a vase without water. I discovered that life was possible even with HIV, and that porting it did not mean a death sentence. So I decided to fight for my life, for my dignity as a human being.
During this period, among many things, but my self-judgment, in which a judge was ruthless, a tenacious prosecutor and a weak defender, I considered myself responsible for many things and, in the process, I took my mother to the court of my conscience, bound and gagged, looked at her, I was filled with pity and decided to forgive her for.
But forgive mentally not enough, you had to take this forgiveness to her in one way or another. It was necessary to find it, find it, embrace it and leave the past buried in the sands consume everything ...
It was a long and diligent search. I am skilled at finding things and people supposedly lost. (The only glitch was not found Fatima, but I believe that she does not want to be found, vanished without a trace.) Thing I learned at night on the streets, in life ...
The Reunion with Mother
When I found my mother three years ago, I met a woman aged, tortured by time and remorse, clinging to a God she does not know, torn by a cancer that she did not treat him and took the symbols of motherhood (...). (The justice is done, like it or not, and always makes the exact point at which we failed in pointing out the exact flaw in our character. Need only look at ourselves and know where we are going wrong ...)
We talked a lot. I realized she was losing what little was left of his sanity, clinging to ghosts, illusions and regrets later, but high amounts.
I never saw myself as someone pitied. And not even know where my hatred of other years may have generated bad energies that have hurt so intensely.
But pity is not love. And also delayed regret is not. And it is love that drives the ship.
In one way or another broke the bond of love that united us and, I think, will never be resumed ...
Especially because there is more time.
The cancer that tore and she made a point of not treating for the Lord to heal him (he heals, but does not dispense medical commitment and sacrifice of chemotherapy) spread and is consuming what is left of life, if no longer just about everything.
The last time I saw her was evil and indifferent to me. I did not try to know anything else. It is the concept of reciprocity coupled with the awareness that I have to suffice myself.
Since the positive diagnosis, I felt an immense contempt for myself and the life I had lived until then. I decided to start over. I tried to learn a little more about computers in order to have livelihoods (owe it to Simone). I learned enough to be able to build machines that use and, on occasion, do some maintenance and get a few bucks. Today already do to some sitesThere is a lot ... but I will taking. I have bigger projects, but I lack resources.
The support house. A cloister
While living in the house support, thought I would go crazy for the lack of life perspective, the lack of a horizon, the lack of hope. The support homes meet a particular social role, but that was not what I was looking for. I did not want a place to wait for death to come, wanted to fight for my life, I understand the magnitude of how life.
Suddenly everything changed, almost casually. There was a new patient in home support, Waldir, very weak, he needed to go to the Day Hospital daily. There was no one to accompany me and asked if I would do that.
I said yes. After all, it was an opportunity to be helpful and more than a chance to get out, see the world, people, lighten my thoughts.
It was a relatively simple routine: morning, I gave him a bath, cleaned her bed sores (I had to learn a lot about human frailty and recognize that I could be in his place someday ...), made the dressing as a nurse taught me and walked, step by step, to the ambulance, known as "papa everything," an irony without limits ...
Arriving at the hospital, put him in a wheelchair and took him to the third floor, where he was placed in bed and received intravenous medication. Was there, so the whole day.
I did not know what he had, but it was something terrible, because he barely supported himself on his legs. Need support to go to the bathroom, to eat, to all ... Even a glass of water he was not able to handle. Still found time to know the other patients that floor and went as far as possible, making friends, getting to know those people, their stories, making them my family. Even gained the confidence of doctors and nurses who came to see me a helper, someone else to collaborate.
Sought wheelchair, pushing gurneys, did everything he could to help.
Brought water to a patient, nurses warned about the serum that had the vein that was lost, I learned a lot about the routine of a hospital and I owe it to each of the people who had the privilege of serving.
But it was during this period that I learned to appreciate not only their lives, but the world itself. The world gained sound Dolby Surround and color Technicolor.
Every person I saw, even a stranger, seemed too important for me to ignore.
A bird that gave a peep was a sign that I was alive and that I could hear it. Life has become sacred to me, too important for it to be wasted.
Each day, every second gained a capital importance in my way of perceiving things.
It was reborn, a different birth, in which a young adult emerges from an old adult, like a butterfly jumping from a cocoon, with a herculean effort, seeking the heat of the sun to spread its wings and lift the flights that fit it .
Much of what I learned from life, I did it inside a hospital, where life struggled every moment and could not always be overcome.
To love not by the fear of death, but by the importance of life, which is what we have most sacred, the gift of life.
You always find an alternative if you give it a chance.
So I decided to give every possible chance to life, and she has given me all the returns that I am able to receive.
Let's get back to people
Among those I met there was a girl named Mércia who, they said, had reached the terminal stage of the disease and had managed to return.
It was the effects of combined therapy that began to save lives.
Mercia contracted HIV from her husband and was taken by surprise by a positive HIV diagnosis.
This is due to a number of opportunistic infections that attacked and killed her husband in a period of five months. She was not cool either.
I always wonder how a person begins to get sick of this or that and no one bothers to make a closer examination, I also wonder how the person does not realize that something is wrong and let go all the way, the "god-give "... It must be the fear of knowing but not being aware does not mean that the problem does not exist. And if there is a difficulty, it is best to face it head on, preferably in their territory.
But when I met Mercia, she was better, had returned to walk like a duckling hatches. I always said that to her, that smile ... And I was filled with hope, he thought of a fresh start.
But he had to be there every day and receive intravenous medication. The bites the tortured, there was no vein could be found without a search 30, 50 minutes. And she wept at the sight of the needle. I think that the situation worsened further in his veins. I always passed through there at eight thirty in the morning to try to help. Embraced it and was talking nonsense in her ear. He spent sung in hairy girl 37 years, and she laughed like a child. At least if distracted, and damned needle entered, taking life, improvising survival.
That lasted about two months, and she was discharged.
Meanwhile, the Waldir was getting worse every day. But I do not remember having seen or heard a single complaint, one tear of pain, nothing. An unspeakable dignity, courage, to me, completely unknown.
After all that work with Waldir, won a weekend like this. Could revise some people whom I still love, pledging to return on Monday. I admit that was a relief. I was tired of pain, suffering, distress and feeling helpless. It was a weekend when I should have relaxed. But I could not. Waldir thought of all the time.
Does are feeding? Will give it a bath? Is he cared? Did he thinks I abandoned him?
It was a sea of questions and, on Monday, collapsed at home support, looking for him.
A cynical smile from another patient and notification:
"Waldir is past. We've even repartimos their stuff. Here's how ... ".
Shot to the hospital, fourth floor, went practically by force. I wanted to see him, say a few words, give him a hug, apologize for a mistake he had committed ... A handshake, anything that could seal our friendship at the time of his departure.
The picture I saw was horrifying and I immediately understood why try to stop me from seeing him.
Waldir no longer recognize anything, not myself. He looked around him as if seeing other people, other things ... Within the new context that approached him, I meant nothing.
I left the room in silence, eyes moist, hardened heart, hurt myself and with life. I aspired to elevate it to a better level, which could enjoy more and better the gift of life. He considered that my "off" killed him.
I sat in the waiting room and waited notification. It took more than 19 hours before it was over and he could finally stand.
I called the management of the home support who asked me to look after (sic) funeral.
I had never dealt with death so closely. Papers, documents, certificates, autopsies.
After three days, his body was released in a cardboard coffin, painted black, fragile as life itself, those very cheap, and we, the driver, and I Waldir toward the Vila Formosa, where he would be left. I remember the look on his face was serene, because I saw him well, before closing the coffin ...
There was no one to help me carry the coffin to the grave. The driver refused. After much begging, I got three people who were attending another funeral, aid in completing this me, that was my last service to Waldir.
I could not, because he had not a penny, plant a flower at the grave, do not even know where it is ...
Back to the Streets
I went back home to support and cried. That was all I had left ...
I felt definitely that there was not my place, it was not for my person in a place like that. I searched another home support, and again, no I adapted. I preferred the streets, where everything is more difficult, but at least could determine the course of my life. I was picking up cans, cardboard, bottles and make some money. It was a war. I worked as a street vendor, sold virtual pets, soda, anything and everything. Often having to defend my right to work on the basis of punches and kicks, just for a change ... I retraced my life slowly ...
Sometimes, the money I earned made me a choice: eat or sleep?
Chose to sleep in a day and eat the other, if luck was better. But I've been capitalizing on growing redoing me without panics, but with some uncertainty.
Months after leaving home support, I entered the CRTA to take care of myself and came down the stairs eight floors. I went to the top of the building, because I wanted to have the opportunity to find the largest possible number of people you know. Going through all the rooms, just rediscovering Mercia, who was dozing, eyes open, very depressed, so depressed that I was scared. She also was startled by the sudden arrival of a person and agreed.
There was not much to say. I could see clearly that it was the end, I had already learned to identify the ongoing death. And she told me this:
- Claudio, I'm tired. Do not want to live. I no longer take any more all this.
Even without hope, chid her and said she lived, who fought, who do not give in now that he was so close (to what?), Who followed only one more day, she lived one day at a time.
She told me she had been living one day at a time long ago, and after that he lived an hour each time, now counted the minutes ...
I stayed with her as much as I could, but had to leave. It was a Friday, and life called me out there charging me obligations and commitments ...
When I said I was leaving, she hugged me and thanked:
- Thanks for everything, Claudius
Immensely lightened (...) ...
I cried like crying now, and have not had word ... It was the last time I saw her in life on Earth. He died at home, along with their, who felt somewhat relieved form (...).
I was scraping by as best I could, working as was possible, knowing the close of prejudice and feeling like your blade is sharp and cruel, insidious and treacherous.
Employment? Not a chance. Nobody employs a person who is absent once a month. I'll turning.
I married a girl (who one day was) who was adored by me, who did not have the virus and does not have it until today. Every time we have sex, we use a condom. We know that our lives are more important than the absence of latex, we seek to respect and love ourselves.
The truth, inserted today 03 / 14 / 2018 is that I took disgust from her, after she had done such monstrosity.
Eat was the person who, in a time of much suffering of mine, after hearing my explanation said:
What a fucking disease you have. And one day she had said, "It defiles me." Fucking hell
To stay alive and healthy, I strictly follow my prescriptions regularly, from so many hours to every day.
It's a bar. Difficult to control, but essential.
I use calendar, computer and friends, besides
my beloved wife (the particular demon) to avoid wasting time.
I am administering the remedies like the one who manages the oxygen in a sunken submarine (it is no longer so)
Today I keep my website (Www.soropositivo.org), while waiting for a cure or something else, whatever it is, even a sponsorship. I have goals, I want to help change this situation of discrimination and, if you can not do it alone, at least I can lay the foundations for a more decent living for people with HIV.
Frustrated plans, mental insanity
I'm gathering people around me. Not me, but my ideas, it will spread slowly and constantly, until a wave is uncontrollable.
Maybe I will not live to see it. But no matter this point. I never got it. And the loss and Amarilis dislodged the group
The most important thing is that like me, other people have a story like mine and are alive. I'm not a miracle, I am not an exception.
Life is always possible, even with HIV.
It is necessary that people become aware of it.
We are alive and we want to stay alive.
We are heads of household, breadwinners of families, responsible for our destinies.
We have the same obligations as all other people. It is quite consistent that we have the same opportunities. It's not fair that we be excluded from life just by being sick and in terms of dealing periodically.
We are worthy of respect as human beings we are.
We are worthy of love as anyone else.
And above all, we are worthy of life.
Solidarize not me. Sympathize with the world that is yours.
Claudio SS - Webmaster, 36 years - A Seropositive since 30anos - Piracicaba / SP
Text published in the Book stories of courage, Of Madras Editora, which is a collection with 14 testimonials from people living with HIV or AIDS. Each text has been reviewed by a media person, opinion maker and who commented my texts was the Reporter Marcos Uchoa
Predictors of peripheral neuropathy related to HIV in the modern era
PS. The person to whom I referred to as my beloved wife, whose name does not grafei before and not grafarei now, it was a kind of particular demon that I had, which reached the highest point of saying, "That shit doencinha this you have" !.
I know that after the book's publication had a glimpse anyone with it, since I had not put her name in the book (vanity of vanities, everything is vanity) and, some time later, no longer supporting the bad mood of her, naked morning Saturday I woke up and saw her back, sitting at the table, making his breakfast, wished him good day twice and she answered me as follows:
"How can I be a good day if the first person I see is you?"
The Squirrel and the Hazelnut
I seized the opportunity as the squirrel grabs the hazelnut:
Do not worry then because in just over a week I will have already left this house ...
and, Go away? Will not wait or Christmas.
I said that my aunt and I could not bear to see her face again, in a regime of reciprocity in which the most urgent thing was to undo the couple, and that was how, a week later, I was already settled, badly and fucking, in Sao Paulo ... the rest is life that runs and you will only know when to leave my book, memories of a man of the night.
Here I found something to add. A song called Queen Spread your wings. It was my first effort to translate something and looking at her now, here in 2016, it seems that I translated, without realizing it, my own prophecy ...
[analytify-stats metrics = "ga: users" permission_view = "administrator"]
More about me? Four nights