It's danitza

It's danitza

It's danitza

"I see you taking a source with blue and tiny hands, no, your hands are not tiny, they are girls, and the source is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and I never came back You used to write sick poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all with capital letters, and you knew famous artists and many of them were your lovers, and I wrote to you, it's all right, come on, get into your life, I'm not jealous because we never met.We were close once in New Orleans, half a block, but without knowing us, without touching us.Then you went with the celebrities and wrote about the celebrities, and of course, what you found was that the celebrities are worried about their fame - and not the beautiful piba in bed with them, that gives them that, and then wake up in the morning to write capital letters on ANGELS AND GOD. We know that God is dead, they told us, but listening to you was not so sure. You were one of the best poets and I told the editors, editors, "she, publish it, she's crazy but she's magic. There is no lie in his fire. " I loved you like a man loves a woman who never touches, just writes, keeps little pictures of her. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room setting up a cigar and I would have heard you piss in the bathroom, but that never happened. Your letters became more sad. Your lovers betrayed you. Baby, I wrote to you, all lovers betray. I do not help. You said that you had a bench to cry and it was on a bridge and the bridge was on a river and you sat on the bench to cry every night and wetted by the lovers who hurt you and forgot you. I wrote you again, but I never heard from you again. A friend wrote me about your suicide 3 or 4 months after that happened. If I had known you I would probably have been unfaithful to you or you to me. It was better this way. "

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