all starts with a dream, a blank page, ready to be written a thousand anecdotes, doubts , confessions, desires, feelings, but do not know why, these turn into accusations, misunderstanding, then silence, perhaps generated by the disappointment, pain, past or present that goes disappointment wrinkling our folio, we dump, unconscious, in every fold, frustration, anger, ghosts, just a moment, but that remains forever , because although he was then pressed, caress it, stretch it, the folio will never be the same as before.
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