My Bf Has A 7 Inch Skinny Penis

The move, the transfer of possessions that one day move from side to side as the neck of a relog of sand ... . That's nothing. Your own world burrea you until the last moment when the house is filled with that strange light leaving the objects to be removed. Just gives you time to think about anything . And
salts there. The next coffee
you do not know where to sit. The warm sun the future, in the cool, sometimes cold breeze uncertainties. Hang on the back of your jacket without cabinet. Sitting
relog at the bottom of sand, fine, reddish as they suit arabia in a can, see about me, on the other side of the neck glass , binding of the things that could not happen, the dinners that I shall not serve, those not called together his friends, the wall on which to project said a thousand times not-so movie-so-educated-as-of-the-years-before, with a dull echo against the glass can hear our laughter when we made fun of those meetings, "the cylinders not we uncork pulling the plug out the window at the bottom of the street, noisy, happy, dancing in the lounge, our two small parties, singing, kissing, moaning, screaming, panting, silences, farting and burping, all suspended, bad folding, the board of risk which we take and never have been there, yet again, from Tierra del Fuego to the last islands of Kamchatka. ... It falls a card and gives me the eye. The rescue of the sand and me get in your pocket, if case. It was a given.
I see the bodies of my last home, trying to adapt their arms and legs to the bottom of the funnel, leaving a lot of empty space, like a bunch of pins in a test tube. Resigned harm than good in his uncomfortable position, they become the bottom with questioning eyes.
On the sand, I do not know what to answer. But I can not answer if I can do without.
A street around me is happy, start some works and people keep running with her fear of being late, as spring comes upon the city like a curious animal about the molasses overturned.