The hours slip through your fingers, they go down the drain of the past and become unrecoverable. Time to think twice, no longer damned seconds elapse, indifferent to us, cold and cruel. The traces are the memory past record that exist in a Sunday ... And there is no order in our lives, some die, others are born, some laugh, others cry, and spend more hours ... Sometimes the death of time, it is an instantaneous stop breathing, death is sweet, but those deaths have evaporated in the sun May impetuous ... There is hope, and die at last, so they say.
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