If you knew how it changed overnight. The streets are deserted. Sometimes I go out some night, as twenty years ago, but nothing seems to then and there is nothing that disturbs me more than to plunge into the past.
The Olympia opened a branch of the Royal, can you believe? We lost the province, we went to the B and I have little laburo above. Sometimes I think they have an infrared laser that reads the Viva Perón, dammit! to have tattooed on the forehead (that must be it, I say, it is written in invisible ink).
were closed billiards and a few remained. In the Montevideo San Martín and still meet some of the guys. Pilo, Doll Castillito and departed. The Polish shot him in the door of his house, it was not for him but he died as a handsome. A Beroiz sent him to kill an internal, as in 60. A Pudding and Paloma seems to the earth had swallowed and Don Jorge remains strong in the mornings at the cafe on the Calle Sarmiento. What
times that. Every so often I just want to tell you, you know, feel like you're here reading these poems that you wrote or giving me these tangos written on a piece of paper with your old Olivetti. Think that the last time I saw you going in a taxi and you walked by street Mendoza, albeit with less hair, you were the bully in the same way forever. Why the hell did not tell the tachero: stop here! Then I read in the newspapers your name, followed by a rip The shit, how I miss.
times that. Every so often I just want to tell you, you know, feel like you're here reading these poems that you wrote or giving me these tangos written on a piece of paper with your old Olivetti. Think that the last time I saw you going in a taxi and you walked by street Mendoza, albeit with less hair, you were the bully in the same way forever. Why the hell did not tell the tachero: stop here! Then I read in the newspapers your name, followed by a rip The shit, how I miss.
Graciana
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