Play. The Government is ACARD. And the radio announced it will be the heart. The other night a group entered the hooded peripheral theater with leaflets anarchists. It said that tomorrow will be the best part of this assault on the sky. It said that the complaints have never written a verse. It was written that if I love, love for my home. And if that lot, I do not know for whom. You know. Now in the mind of this lineage appears intact guerrillas. And lots of kisses steeped in literature and in books. And lots of love in anemia. Times are military. But suddenly the radio and television broadcast a film music with Beethoven. And sometimes I see you noticed that your eyes are beautiful expressions. And I think I could go with you to flush out the spiders from their nests. In that place so much literature that will never be destroyed. You know. Who stops the writers refuse even his life. And who refuses life, in fact, attaches too much importance.
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