The story I'm going to tell, is not my story.
It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own.
The dream I will remember, won't be mine.
It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own.
I think of stories I like to make stories.
To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up.
When I wake up, it'll happen again.
It'll start all over...
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Τ. Λειβαδιτης
Κι εσυ, γιατι κοιταζεις ετσι μαραμενη τη γιορτη μπας κι επειδη εισαι ασχημη
γδυσου μωρη, καπου κρυμμενη θα ‘ναι η ομορφια σου λυσ’ τα μαλλια σου, βγαλε το φουστανι σου πετα το δισταγμο σου
ασχημη, ασχημη, ασχημη να δεις ποσο εισαι ομορφη, ομορφη, ομορφη.
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