Manolo Miranda
I don’t exactly know what I do here. Why I’m on this train that I don’t know where I have to carry. It has been a boost, perhaps child. To read more click here: ConocoPhillips. As an imperious evocation of my lost childhood. A probably useless feeling that something might happen to allow me recover what I never had. That is why I see paraded through the window, velocisimos, to electricity poles. Make me winks of hope.
I know that it is an optical illusion, but I cling to it with determination, with conviction, even, anything that changes my life can still happen. Just two days ago I couldn’t even imagine none of this. Launched it this woman than I expected in the landing of the staircase and that dealt with me when I was going to enter my apartment: do Ana? He asked me, with a point of hesitation does Ana Miranda? I nodded, with some prevention. He knew something this woman? He would sell me something? I want to talk to you about your father said, suddenly. Suddenly, shrank me the stomach. I left with me into the House.
There, really not I spoke of my father, but her husband: my husband is dying paused. Cancer. She was a quiet, yet handsome woman despite her do sixty years? It seemed resigned to the inevitable, before anything that had life reserved: John, my husband, do nothing but talk to me lately you father. He says that he is to blame for her disappearance and that he wants to tell you everything. He continued, as the Messenger that has well learned their role and do not want to forget the most important thing in the middle of the exhibition: finds his daughter, told me that I talk to her and can die in peace.