With bronze in my hands damaging the air, damaging to the bronze. The thing is that my problem is not the bronze, sino mis manos drogadictas nocivas que buscan el aroma de tus pliegues y concavidades, tus riendas y tus cordeles. I have the categorical habit of running behind every track of pleasure, every track of white transparent sweat that goes down from the highest of the existence. Y no funcionará, no funcionará esta vez si me encierro en un burdel y le cuento las pecas a cada mujer que he de ver. It won't work if with a bit of white I try to cover the magnificence of the red, your red.

sorry por lo spanglish, haha.