quinta-feira, 10 de novembro de 2011


… He worked his fingers around the little edges of the typewriter, every single key so faded out of use, every time he typed something, regardless of what the words were, just the ringing of the keys, the touch of the metal on skin, the rolling of the pin, the whole process was a symphony to him, he could hear each and every key like a heartstring, a melody being played with his own being, out of his own soul. He let his heart do the writing, he wanted it to be perfect for her, a perfect symphony of words and feelings that she could treasure forever, long after he was gone, but out of all the words, out of all the sentences, poetry, stories, tales or inventions he could put onto that piece of paper, the same three words seem to always appear. He stared, blinking at the paper which read in a perfect loop, a constant repeat, “ I LOVE YOU " ( Words by Alastair Black )

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