A WARM TOUCH
How cruel are the days I have lived! What strikes me as uncertain fate!
Now, gripped by gambling debts, being chased by creditors chewy and infallible, and devoid of goods with which to satisfy their bestial requirements, I have no other option but to land in between, forget the courage and gallantry, and run like a rabbit. Perhaps my pride
be impaired to fulfill this potential, yes. But good is a healthy skin and balms will be to wipe the wounds of shame.
Hate, however, behave well, for the bravery and courage have always emblazoned my line, and the unseemly flight was never well received by my illustrious ancestors. However, as I am aware that their spirits will not be removed restless in their graves, I decided to start my shameful retreat, full of hope disgrace but satiated.
Huyo! Fled to save my life, and harbor no other desire than to preserve the bones that age has taught me to love. However, even knowing that my conduct is correct, I still feel a pang of intense anger at the way that I have proven elusive.
have been so capricious the designs, as absurd the distribution of wealth, that remains to me a marked tendency to revenge, a deep desire to wield a strong hand, one to give me some letters that do justice to my renowned ability and allow me to have avenged a loss to a lot players less gifted than me.
Ay! How would this be done as possible! How to see the blackness of my opponents faces, empty pockets and laugh at them, just reply to your previous jokes.
God! How beautiful it would!
I know I am troubled by the uncertainty of my views, I know that my current mood is not ideal for resolving this conundrum that besets me, but I can not think of the unjust behavior of fate. Is there anyone so deserving of their assistance as I am? Does anyone as worthy as bold?
No! Of course not! And yet they, so divine, so ethereal, are pleased to start seeing a shameful mockery, brimming with social insults, to which I can do nothing
how I hear the train approaching. His shrill whistle strikes me as a knock, I returned to consciousness and makes me cowering away after a long and healthy life. I flee. I know I should. And yet ...
I huddled in my coat, and something intemperate. I do not know if the cause of my tremors is the low temperature or lack of courage. But I feel cold. Reach into their pockets. And there they are. My last records, those who resisted the clashes of a fleeting fortune and took shelter in the warmth of flannel, about attacks rarely compassionate; those that passion back at me and now I produce a bronco beat.
I know they are few. Very few. But his touch is warm, and I'm cold. And they're still there. It may be a sign that my luck will change. You could take a last hand, just one, and discover whether the bad end that has led my life has finally retired. Perhaps it is best not to take this train.
Or not?
How cruel are the days I have lived! What strikes me as uncertain fate!
Now, gripped by gambling debts, being chased by creditors chewy and infallible, and devoid of goods with which to satisfy their bestial requirements, I have no other option but to land in between, forget the courage and gallantry, and run like a rabbit. Perhaps my pride
be impaired to fulfill this potential, yes. But good is a healthy skin and balms will be to wipe the wounds of shame.
Hate, however, behave well, for the bravery and courage have always emblazoned my line, and the unseemly flight was never well received by my illustrious ancestors. However, as I am aware that their spirits will not be removed restless in their graves, I decided to start my shameful retreat, full of hope disgrace but satiated.
Huyo! Fled to save my life, and harbor no other desire than to preserve the bones that age has taught me to love. However, even knowing that my conduct is correct, I still feel a pang of intense anger at the way that I have proven elusive.
have been so capricious the designs, as absurd the distribution of wealth, that remains to me a marked tendency to revenge, a deep desire to wield a strong hand, one to give me some letters that do justice to my renowned ability and allow me to have avenged a loss to a lot players less gifted than me.
Ay! How would this be done as possible! How to see the blackness of my opponents faces, empty pockets and laugh at them, just reply to your previous jokes.
God! How beautiful it would!
I know I am troubled by the uncertainty of my views, I know that my current mood is not ideal for resolving this conundrum that besets me, but I can not think of the unjust behavior of fate. Is there anyone so deserving of their assistance as I am? Does anyone as worthy as bold?
No! Of course not! And yet they, so divine, so ethereal, are pleased to start seeing a shameful mockery, brimming with social insults, to which I can do nothing
how I hear the train approaching. His shrill whistle strikes me as a knock, I returned to consciousness and makes me cowering away after a long and healthy life. I flee. I know I should. And yet ...
I huddled in my coat, and something intemperate. I do not know if the cause of my tremors is the low temperature or lack of courage. But I feel cold. Reach into their pockets. And there they are. My last records, those who resisted the clashes of a fleeting fortune and took shelter in the warmth of flannel, about attacks rarely compassionate; those that passion back at me and now I produce a bronco beat.
I know they are few. Very few. But his touch is warm, and I'm cold. And they're still there. It may be a sign that my luck will change. You could take a last hand, just one, and discover whether the bad end that has led my life has finally retired. Perhaps it is best not to take this train.
Or not?
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