Someone told me i couldbe a worrior: stars would appear wheneaver i wanted them to, and one after and other i ll shoot them with a kind of magic weapon. The darkness after the fear, without those lights looked so cousy and my hearth sparkled after his death. Nothing, neither Edipo nor those heavenly bodies all along the sky could have save me. But i still wanted to fight. Something might save us, a worrior, at last.
(mi ingles estaba empezando a apestar)
