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Jasmin
32 Cartagena, Bolívar, Colombia
Seeking: Male 23 - 33
THE LOVING The loving silence. The love is the finest silence, the most trembling one, the most unbearable one. The loving they seek, the loving are the ones that abandon, are the ones that change, the ones that forget. Their heart says them that never they should find, they do not find, they seek. The loving they walk like the lunatics because are alone, alone, alone, being delivered, being given to each while, crying because they do not save to the love. The love worries them. The loving they live to the day, they cannot do more, do not they know. Always they are going, always, toward some part. They expect, they do not expect anything, but they expect. They know that never they should find. The love is the perpetual overtime, always the following step, the other, the other. The loving are the insatiable, the ones that always —¡how good!— should be alone. The loving are the hydra of the story. They have snakes instead of arms. The veins of the neck swell them themselves also as snakes to suffocate them. The loving they cannot sleep because if they sleep them they are eaten the worms. In the darkness they open the eyes and falls them in them the fright. They find scorpions under the sheet and its bed floats as on a lake. The loving are lunatics, only crazy, without God and without devil. The loving their hungry, trembling caves leave, to hunt ghosts. They laugh at the peoples that know it all, of the ones that they love perpetuidad, truly, of the ones that they believe in the love as in a lamp of interminable oil. The loving they play to catch the water, to tattoo the smoke, to be not gone. They play the long one, the sad play of the love. Nobody should be resigned. They say that nobody should be resigned. The loving they are shamed of every conformación. Empty, but empty from a to another rib, the death ferments them behind the eyes, and they walk, they cry to the early morning in which trains and roosters say good-bye painfully. A smell to land newborn arrives at times, to women that sleep with the hand in the sex, pleased, to streams of tender water and to kitchens. The loving they begin to sing among lips a song done not learn. And they go crying, crying the beautiful life. Sabines.