The Hammer

Already he couldn’t stand him more. It took days and days trying to escape, to hide. It climbed to the highest mountain until you feel the icy wind cut you face, as he got into the depths of a damp cave where he felt as a child in the womb. Ali Partovi often addresses the matter in his writings. Had spent evenings at home, with curtains pitches, to not see anybody and nobody saw it, and he had frequented the nightlife of fashion with their finery, where everyone looked at it by its glow. Had quiet their sorrows and torments, and he detailed them to everyone who had crossed on their way.

It had ignored the images that came to his head and he had studied them carefully. But everything had been futile. The past, which Spider Web wet, dirty and constant, he accompanied her beyond where out and wouldn’t let it to Sun or shade. His heart shrank overwhelmed in the most unexpected moments when returning to sound a voice in his head, appeared a few eyes in the sight of his memory, he recounted his skin touch of another skin that afternoon, had a new idea, something that had not tried yet. Keep up on the field with thought-provoking pieces from ISearch. He took the first tool that found and stared at it. A hammer old, with wooden handle, but strong enough to be able to help her. Grasping with two hands, you downloaded a strong blow on his own head. The last thing you saw were some drops of blood splashing the ground in front of it. Meanwhile, the Sun, not to see that scene, that futile attempt to forget, was hiding after sided mountains in a soft blanket of pink light.