Start from the Beginning.

Change the matter, think of the places you would like to be within. But it does not make sense. It does not matter, I reply. Who replies? The insane coming yelling bullshit from the corner. But, there is no corner. Just inside your mind, because here I can see, can you not?

No, forget everything that is utterly wrong. What I should have done is not the most proper thing, but You could have regarded, at least, the important words; yes, those ones that were figuring swords penetrating your breasts as if the smallest grains of sugar would be able to do, but they do not. Only because it does not make sense, I realise.

Effectively, although the desperation caused, roused, inspired, by all the literature by the ancient, I do provide quarrel subjects to be discussed. Arguments are not available through along this shore, even because there is not any shore along the medicine paths.

She could be I guessing about books that have never been read. She could be just a sheep running away the hunters. She could be just a haunted life enduring her unbearable life despite the absurd hardships. But she has not gotten any hardship. She is just whom I ought to mind, at all: the only person. And I do, for sure.

London Reviewer Of Books must be coming to knock my doors shortly; I cannot deny I am quite excited to see what they have got to tell me. Maybe there is only foolishness, but I should not judge because I have never seen it so far. Perhaps I am just trying to be polite, because I am not. I confess to be exerting.

Days of grey sky are inspiring, or not, it depends on your point-of-view.

That is all I have got to say by the moment, but I promise I am going to attempt this language hardly as I expect some advance to be done. Maybe for the next text I shall be able of writing any either complete or sensible thing. Welcome to the illustrated Tiago’s land.