Patti is named after the village. In the twenty thousand inhabitants
Patti is clearly a name of evil, a fifth of bra, a magenta lips, the smell of vanilla lemon that resists to incense the priest and to which the priest, the priest, does not resist.
Patti is a name that the others we will call you never, never will use it to ask her out let alone visit them at home, where your trail of vanilla lemon remains to tickle their husbands.
Patti is a name to husbands, that if you pass it a spritz with the language from another, and if you put in your pocket with the cloves to play with her fingers while waiting for dinner.
And that 92% silk 8% elastin of your slides back, and how, between the fingers, palms speeds along, it chases between the forearms to fall on viscous breasts. Patti. With this horrible habit of generosity. With a hymen for every occasion. With the smell of vanilla lemon to lose sleep.
And a mother who gave you whip with each new wrinkle to the pink flesh gonfiartisi who saw him for the absurd claim to be able to laugh at anything and it ferment in your 36 th saw something that more and more drunk of his wine in cardboard.
Everything changes. He says. And nothing is created. Pare. But nothing is destroyed, well, it takes faith, not science, to believe it.
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