Hoy he estado pensando mucho en ojos, tobillos, vestidos en llamas, espías... cosas de niños.
Como este poema cantado:
The tiny goat wanted a birthday party,
and sent out invitations to its friends
but when the day came none of them remembered
So it gouged out its eyes with fountain pens
[...]
The tiny goat was very very ugly
and like all ugly things, it fell in love
When twenty years of waiting turned to nothing
It swallowed lye and laid down on the stove
and sent out invitations to its friends
but when the day came none of them remembered
So it gouged out its eyes with fountain pens
[...]
The tiny goat was very very ugly
and like all ugly things, it fell in love
When twenty years of waiting turned to nothing
It swallowed lye and laid down on the stove
Y en fin. Extrañando mucho al escritor atormentado que huía de la ley, acusado de un incendio que no cometió. Ya que decidió dejarnos a todos en suspenso como si fuera una broma.
Quizás sea el momento de buscar un nuevo pasatiempo. Saludos, buen fin!
I didn't realize this was a sad occasion.
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