Simplement Parfaite Even today, as every day, the pencil has painted my eye. A black line, material, makes it fat, by contrast, brighter and my eyes, flying towards the temples, can suggest the most exotic, mysterious and secret. Moreover, in recent years the mirror told me every morning to be just that: a Queen Nefer. So do the words, hands and eyes of Frederick in the office every day. And before him, those of Mark and the University of Alexander High School.
are each twenty-five years ago the world knows that you need to know about me using a pencil. I now secure and automatic gestures: a hand stretches the eyelid and the other defines the forms, covering all small, imperceptible irregularity of my lineaments. Along with the outline of my eyes, drawing even my confidence, my strength, my courage. Thus, any loop in which creeping my soft parts is covered by a uniform treatment. Every morning I give a fillip to Pirandello and show that the I see that others agree to make all the other me.
I would not be able to leave the house without that strong mark, dark, brand equity, which in my eyes. Yet, just turned forty, I am ashamed of this weakness that wants to cancel each other. I would scream at all the anger I have for a loneliness that do not deserve, I want to openly give me the fragility of happiness, I must avenge the humiliation of having to be beautiful, desirable and inaccessible.
I would cry every day for the son I never did.
last look in the mirror before leaving home.
Simply perfect.
