Write always for those who don't know how to read, for the workers who are turning with bloodshot eyes from the sand, made by the Sun, for the loons that spin their home although tired nights, only for all of you that we drank together in Hania on cold winter nights. Write to read those who collect the cards from the streets and skorpizoyne the seeds of hope of this world, writing about the black Redstarts, gyrologoys and plystres. I write for you my love ones death, for my comrades in hope, for you who loved sands and flowers, as joined with love with a woman. And when I die and would not? May nor little dust anymore in your streets, my words sound and will just always find a place on the wooden tables between the bread and the tools of the people...
Not so prosaic everyday life, as some pretend. Try to reach a detail to turn into a celebration. A flower is place at the bedside. A candle is standing on the table. A broad smile, a hug, or a kiss, it’s not everyday life. The imagination is to blame for not hanging out...
I wish everyone to find their own path that will lead them to meet all of their expectations. Health and happiness are the real main goal ... every inch of happiness and every dream let your everyday reality ... Good morning!!!
Not so prosaic everyday life, as some pretend. Try to reach a detail to turn into a celebration. A flower is place at the bedside. A candle is standing on the table. A broad smile, a hug, or a kiss, it’s not everyday life. The imagination is to blame for not hanging out...
I wish everyone to find their own path that will lead them to meet all of their expectations. Health and happiness are the real main goal ... every inch of happiness and every dream let your everyday reality ... Good morning!!!
