My life is not my life but it is, talk about feelings sound and I always thought that feelings did not understand why I feel naive, misguided, stupid, wrong. The adapted, surviving with grace, speak of the need to distrust, to be selfish, be on guard, once again, I am naïve, wrong, stupid, wrong. Those who left the skin, which felt so ridiculous and disproportionate to the misfits: This Friday birthday party at the Villa I, ask for André Baillon.
In the past I was a gray person, usually dark. I was a crazy peaceful, an idealist with his head almost always elsewhere: a better place though unreal. Now I am a crazy dangerous, a cynical smile at their enemies while imagining his blood shed, a girl always alert to head up your neck: a worse place, but real. The Villa II, can. At other times, I learned languages \u200b\u200bto communicate with people of all kinds. I learn the language of signs to avoid speaking: avoid misunderstandings, lies, deceptions ... In the past, building my life based on pillars of sand that collapsed, one after another, while I lift again. Now I sleep in the open, on the remaining sand in the Villa II. At other times, distinguished perfectly good and evil, the real from the unreal, the sound of insanity. Now I think of prisons where the evil refuge outside psychiatric hospitals and where to find sane people. So I stay at the Salpêtrière, the Chalet II, by André Baillon, which occupies the Villa I. Like when the needle guards convinced that the patch that you did to your heart works and see that it has begun to bleed on the other side.
