In margin of intoxication, on the edges of the lapse of memory, the complaint of a violin prolongs the end of a motionless future.

I find in the writing the surest means to slow down the race of time; Certain clouds light in the twilight and are you can freely admire it without resistance any.

The glaciers melt towards the South, the Hell is a concept, the Earth is just a mystical decoration.

Alas... I can'T stop loving you.