foreva eva


Under my bed , there is a box. Not really special one, but its content is weightier than all this material stuff i've got around me. I don't usually peer to it, knowing what's inside, being a little bit scared and also kinda confused.

Diving into the past, life wasn't so easy. Well, i couldn't swim and count and shout, so i screwed up everything (I'm so sorry). Everytime I was going to sleep i was hugging a yellow charm, looking at the black-and-white picture i've got over my head. I knew it off by heart, taking a stroll down memory lane, really.
Dreaming was hard too and counting stars and late night messages and talking so quietly. I love quiet, it's vair nice, isn't it? When I was quiet I used to write down my mind on the small sheets of paper. It was so stupid, though. I read it to you at loud, laughing and smiling, thinking it was so funny but your face was sad and i didn't know what to do. There there I said : you sent me so many postcards with silly regards and billions postscripts, i can curtain your eyes so you can not see those disgusting things.
Did I tell you about Paris? no? Oh bonjour, au revoir, merci mademoiselle, needles, calendars, pencils, Disneyland map, dictionary. One day we should go to Paris together. Oh how lovely.

There are ten millions things i wanna say to you about this box but i must brush my little pony's mane and look good and pretend super-hero for a while. Good night good luck.


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