Ladies, you love at least once men who make you dream!

When I think about myself and analyze myself in all my hiding places and pits, \. He's somewhere under the amateur mechanic and British researcher. In a wheel I could change, in theory I could dig a study of wet water but harder to think about wine and candles. I'm not saying that the last ones are to be dropped, just say they're not me. As far as the men in my life are concerned, I do not have a specific pattern. I liked some of the beauty of painting you, some of it hard to put in words but with a personality of seven.

Some flamboyant flames, others prosthetic, spit out of their mouth but excel in other areas. Romantic men, never. Almost never. Do not tell me they are not romantic because I am. Or take romanticism to the surface for the right woman.

In my case, this has not happened. I was not the right woman and I never had emotional availability for that. The classic and real-life case of \. The maximum romance you can get out of me is a glass of bourbon in hand and the solemn promise that for some time I will not want any bad karma. Probably that bourbon cup was the key to the romantic bone in me.

That's where I got the bad ones, but especially the good ones. Seeing this world is nothing accidental. Photo Victor Tondee / Shutterstock I think some things, and especially some people, must happen to you. No matter how hard you resist, karma, life, fate, Divine Justice, tell him what you want, bring you together. In these cases, we can learn from each other.

Maybe we get better, I do not know. In my case, I think we have paid our sins one by one. The context in which we met is completely irrelevant and impossible in theory. In practice, we made our way to each other, although we both knew how expensive to pay. But I swear on the red, it deserved every fingered fingers, every bruise cut out of the bite to the bloody bruise.

If I could get it tomorrow, I would. You forgive me, I take my memories before, and my fingers are behind the keyboard. What I'm trying to say is that this man, an idol impossible, made me dream about the hours. We stood in the sheets that drank the lack of bodily and soulful puddles and we walked through everyone with the eyes of the mind. We crossed so dozens of countries, dozens of times.

We were taking refuge in a dustbill in Paris, La Belle Epoque, in tobacco smoke, opium steam and piano sounds. I ran away among the American students who were protesting against the Vietnam War. I stayed close to Yuri Kochiyama and I smelled the death of Malcolm X in the air. We walked together on his childhood fields and gathered acorns on my childhood hills. I traveled through the hustle and bustle of Mongolia's harsh green horses and I caught sight of the inter-war brothels of Japan.