foulish things

I know nothing of the word which's got stucked in here, deepthroat. Homesick all it is, that foulishness digging meself, those who hold me and grasp me the one word, which is not only one, I know. And that's all I know. Pavorous. Not knowing talking, 'hate. But to feel I know end I'm feeling fouly, enmitily, not only mindily, factual. Its in the hand, in the stomach, in the gullet, in everybody... All sic. I'd like you here for feeling with me, E V E R Y! (fou), for feeling I more than it's factual, for feeling I not only you here, but in me 'n in you, for me and for you. For us, I mean. For every which is ours, our life, our day which was ours, I think. I think not, I know. Moreover, I feel. Thats how I imagine being fou is. Come here and that is. That come. That. We can see what we do later later.

autora: Lígia Carrasco
tradução: Ricardo Miyada