will not know how to start your day. Now it's cold and I can hardly move his fingers to write, first fingers, then hands it is as if there was something in me that wants to write but my body or feel like "everything is written from the body, who do not, do not write: the dead do not write for the case: they insist, that's different.
reread something I wrote long ago, I complained that there was no drinking whiskey, and today I drank several glasses of tiny steps, I time my tolerance for alcohol, but that's a pose, the worse, so not insist on it (I wrote about the dead.)
All farewells leave no taste, this year I had many, many, all the same, tasteless. My grandfather
confused with a cousin of mine. I dread to think that I remember. Can not remember almost anything, of course, but I dread to think that does not remember me, and I extend that fear and wonder what I remember when I try to remember someone. I'm afraid to forget to remember what my grandfather now.
lied in the title. To me, still, is June 29. Let me say that I'll stay awake until I am, but I wrote about the poses. I go to bed, brush my teeth, listen to three tracks before the dream comes full. Tomorrow I'm going to get up and do what ever. Those things of parting, were, like burying something: it is only a matter of emphasis. But I wrote about death.
