I would have been me. I would have killed me. At least we were finished and he does not speak any more. But no. Not only it was not me, nor know anything about what happened. It is not enough. I do not believe. We are convinced. And I can not change his mind. Because every word, every gesture, every color they fit him in their castle. And all of them confirmed their devastating situation. I do not know why. Someone at the beginning had this idea. And he is in love to the point of becoming a prisoner. More. E 'became him. It is insinuated he owns it. And then nothing will ever change his mind. And the bad impression, you know, are taken. Grow faster because the wind fed by warm and quiet lives in all of us. I do not know what to call it, I do not think envy. What then? My miserable job? Snip of my life I was trying to make it less Segalin each dawn? And that turns off to sleep, sometimes flat, some deep, most of the time-sensitive and sweaty, every holy night? It is not envy. And 'that wants to hurt, not to believe. E 'lack of confidence in man. because everyone always feels a victim. And never executioner. Curious, what we call most of the others is precisely what that unless we are willing to offer: whether it's patience, and piety, and understanding. I read somewhere that more than in giving charity is to understand. How true. But even atrocious. Because just as the love fades nell'elemosina, poisons insight into the scandal. Underlie good faith claim to remove the acid. I've heard many. No one dared acknowledge. But it should be! Rather boasted mercy, claiming to soften the message with the falsity of such expressions as "poor man" "is" "but you think that true ..". And they enjoyed their ability to conceal this. And so, she slipped away too dignity. And I started to curse me for not having committed the crime. Why, then yes I would have regained their respect. I'd climbed into the chair, I explained and claimed and asserted. And in this assertion of my freedom, the complaint would be kind of society. Then I would have pledged their piety. Maybe even more. Their admiration. I would be dropped in the areas television stations. The world would be mine. I regret the cowardice of honesty. Why has paid me with expulsion from life. And there was nothing more than folded, put away, crawl into a drawer of existence, where only the naphthalene may protect against moths and torment. A forgotten fact of leaks, faces downcast, changes in the shadows. And I can not even break the boundaries of this country because the survey will not let me. As if they had already torn it all. Quartered every detail. How would do me. I have already confessed. But the crime that I threw out is not what interests them. Neither the people who hates to see others in misery trying to hide themselves. There are no longer the pushovers of the past: what people want are the big winners to admire them and envy them, collecting them into a pure hatred, with no limits, or the great sinners, to despise and rise amman riparmio without its mercy and thus proving larger than those who judge. And I'm here, waiting for death, which has already devastated the physical end to penetrate the soul and turn it off altogether. Unless you find, somewhere, in some eyes, a light that talk of a ransom that can not say give me the honor, but at least my self-respect.
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