Sophia was walking around on their tracks, depressions warm white down, marks where his gaze fell asleep.
That night I could not find his character. And not enough laps and markings, there was no track to reach the exit of the labyrinth. In which she, of course, had gone alone. Because she decided . No matter what Andonaegui thought, she was able to decide. But would not. That's what happened. She had decided she did not want decidir.Era easier to follow in the taciturnity of bare feet and red toenails. Sofia, the writer, the decider, was in the heat absorption of his skin against hers. That contact had ever enjoyed and learned to lose. Because he had been taught to blows and finally learned to lose. Then he spent to lose.
She was a very intelligent woman, who wove and unraveled, I learned and practiced, and almost always lost. A Sofia lacked just learning to retrieve. If only hot within a depression lying on the white carpet.
