I pass them and not me realize even stop me and say how beautiful the baby, like the parent who has gone . She, embarrassed, he offers me his hand thin, pointed.
Your contact takes me a couple of days ago and imagine them as maternity leave with the baby, smiling stupidly as new parents, though I guess, to the light, some of the signs of his depravity. Rodeo
his grip, still tight, with my left hand and go a little further, a few hours, and smell the humidity the halls of the basement of motherhood, I hear the sounds coming out of their mouths split, I can see bony hands stretching towards the baby that brings a nun, a baby who, bound by the feet, face down, flat as higher a trophy, cry knowing his fate.
Loose hand in disgust. Her gaze is evasive. The challenging him.
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