In the house opposite to mine and out women. All share the look: cerradÃsimos blouse or jacket, jeans and low heels. Inside the shack change the thing is, the clothes fall. That last I heard from the neighbors, customers, I see them every evening from my window, hidden by the curtain that covers and uncovers, as my zipper down and up. Piss drunk and then spit my door. Both forced me to sign the request to close (they need my signature for lots, to add to the package), hoping that we do not heed, clinging to that utopia libidinous, secret. Mine. I do not want removed their only contact with the outside world, why nobody cares that I can not get out of this damn room? Why not write letters to save?
Juan Secaira
Ecuador
Ecuador
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