A typewriter in your father he needs a good cleaning and adjusting the gear types Interline lever, yet you insist on going to happen to clean the poems that you spent when we had so much fever.
We take your parents are in the theater watching "Doctor Zhivago" and you and I, alone, looking at the desk and tipex tracing paper or, at least, ink eraser. There was no way so we had three work if we wanted the three copies that we said.
The drilling machine is in charge of our senses with their music and as I dictate my poetry turned and imperfect, cross your legs and balance your patent leather shoes that shone like the cocked hat of your father, who was captain, chewing gum distracted and looked at your white socks or thread crochet, looked at the clock and said:
"Hurry up we can still eat a bologna sandwich, put new discs and dance" Nights in White Satin "and" With his pale white. "
Not that I did not like the font of the machine of your father, or that I love bologna, and dancing, not to mention, but, as I dictate and swing the leg, I saw I had gone becoming a mini skirt and a lack of interest in what he had written for you.
You do not understand me. My poems can expect to run them clean, so in a few months will decide whether it burned or machine itself. Let's see if I reached the frames to Kiosks.
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