meanwhile hatred. The beauty of things
remains an insoluble riddle. Not even the beloved Bartezzaghi puzzle of the week I had never given much thought to. Jacopo
instead make it, and keeps me tied to a past from which I can not get free and in which I feel lost.
It 's like a labyrinth of walls moldy ... but I see the output is still far away.
I called just now, a shocking phone call.
She cried, I've never heard crying. Between sobs, she asked me how I was. I wondered who was the one who responded.
He asked me if I loved him. He told me that he still loves me, that you realize how important I feel for him. He says he wants to come to Rome if they agree to, in the eyes if it's over.
In all this I have just said "I do not know." The only words that I said hello from the start and end.
I do not act like Anna, and I can not do not matter as Veronica. I tremble, I suffer and cry and even I am ashamed to do so.
But above all I hate this question: what do I do?
Isabella lost, a ghost of itself
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