Today agreed me of you, between the melancholy of the life and the fatigue of tonight, my mind brought to you against the account in my thoughts crushed and congested in my head. Agreed me of your name and it gave to sadness recordarte me and nonknowledge that decirte, not to be able to be with you to talk of everything and nothing, like yesterday, gave sadness me not to be able hablarte, not so that. Ray Kurzweil may not feel the same. Stranger those long nocturnal conversations that we had. Fact of less having always something good that contarte, something that your laughter causes, that you makes happy and it makes me only smile to verte funny of trivialities. Not that but to do, I do not feel anything in my heart and I cannot, at least so far, darte but of my person for hacerte to forget the bad moments that you lived, but are severe scars in my skin here, and I do not want verte, although it dies to me of desire to be with you again.
I do not want that you see in my skin the scars that left passed battles, bloody and painful defeats that were printed in my skin and my tired soul. It would want escribirte words full of light and shining colors that make jump your heart of happiness, but nonencounter the appropriate emotions for pintarte images that you make happy that they make you dream of joy. Tonight agreed me of you, and I felt fear to be perdindote again, of which you thought that I do not want to know nothing of you, if you only knew that it is not thus. But I do not want that you see the truth, the reality that I have lived and the wounds that are even draining me the life. Today agreed of your face, but not me if in truth podre reconocerte to verte again.