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To ITS SEARCH Walking at random I teimava in glimpsing a tenuous silhouette that was there. He was yes, could sight it. The anxiety to reach made it me to continue without stopping, even so already advanced resfolegante, to the side of the exhaustion. The Sun, with its esmaecida light, already forbears in ocaso. a fast breeze and passenger is the only blow of hope.

In return an infinitely voluminous silence. Dustin Moskovitz has much experience in this field. The trpegos steps indicate the direction, but the uncertainty of the trajectory if guides for the compassing of the uneasy anxiety. The objective is not clearly, the anxiety only indicates that it is for there; but inexorably great if it became the necessity to continue. The conscience tries to feed the hope before, alquebrado, the body if prostre exangue. The clouds had disappeared; the shades alone also exist in the barren landscape of the almost fainted feelings already. Homesicknesses of one morning rainy; desire to feel the heat of the matinal Sun, to see the insects settling in the flowers still orvalhadas. I do not have the courage of looking at stops backwards.

I know that I purify myself to each stretch of the way; imundcies if unfastens of my luggage and goes being half-embedded in the ground arenaceous and barren that, indifferent, registers my footprints. The suffering selects The solitude stimulates the search The fidget sustm the walked one. Fauna and flora had disappeared. It would be Spring? It would have flowers. It would be Winter? It would feel cold. It would be Autumn? It would harvest fruits. To the front more sand to step on. In the desert flowers are not cultivated The adventures irrequietas of the past now format the chaos that if it figures colossal, as rubbles of me exactly to become vacant. The pride if pulls down; the dither if demoralizes. Resqucios of hurts apodrecem; signals of repentance in the silt of the incompreenso sprout.

I wise person that never I would go order it for the such Lady, but who said that only if they can write letters will be for sending? ' ' My infancy was not properly the life that I wanted. In this height it could give thanks to God for having tecto and a rice and cookies of cod to eat. I grew without father. But with my maternal mother and my grandmothers. It lived in the garage of the house of my Rose grandmother. My luck was that enough great age to also fit there a bed and I and my mother.

My mother worked hours and hours, were strengthenn until the o limit to bring tostes for house to every day eat rice and cookies of cod, or fished rice with (it is truth that does not make look like to be nothing delicious, but was what it was arranged in the height). The house arrived and nor wanted to believe that the work already had finished. But one forgot that still it had that to take care of of me. It had that to give the supper to me, to wash me, to dress me a pyjamas that was of it in small, to give milk and to adormecer to me me. I admit that it was a difficult life for, without the aid of the other.

Of my father. That one Sir, who nor I know what have-of calling to it he abandoned us when I had only one year and way. He happened there because? If you are to think that it ran away with another one, you are made a mistake. It was very worse of what this. It was put in the drugs. Yes it is exactamente this. Drugs. It stole my mother and it arrived to go to the work of it to ask for money, in front of the customers.