A Sunday morning

Well, I am here again, despite this wonderful Sunday headache. Yeah, I have drunk very much. At least, it could be funny but not I don´t have a hangover! Indeed, I have drunk a lot of water to take the orange pills. That is, the cold enemy because  I think I am the one person who has a cold with sunny and warm days.

Today, I didn´t know what I wanted to say. Indeed, I don´t know and I am thinking about. I wish I could speak about relationship such as friends or girl friends. May be I am not ready. Let´s try to focus it!!!!!!!!!

You know this is a big lie. Though everybody tell us we need to have friends in our life, there is no close friends. They are there to obtain one thing from you like company, help, fun, money and so on. It can be harmful, I know, and It is difficult to say. So, we are alone over the hole life. Nobody stays in the most difficult times. Therefore, if you have one true friend, you are lucky.

It is incredible but I have written only this in all the day and I think whether I must write something or I must erase these words with no reasons. Hint in my mind: with no ideas, don´t write, man!

Given today is not my day, I will continue another day with the love "affaire", this curse for each mortal who lives in this little planet. Most of people have fear of atomic bomb and they ignore love is even worst for several reasons: is a drug and you want to take more and more, you get poisoned and later, you finish with such a devastation like an atomic bomb but you will continue with these disease until the death. However, Shakespeare said: there will be no writers, if love doesn´t exist.  I know, I have killed Shakespeare...

I would give thanks to one friend who has discovered me this unfamous sonnet 116 and personally I dislike Shakespeare but I can´t say the same with their sonnets. Well, now I finish this bad entry and I try to fix a little with the following sonnet. Have a good start in this week!

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments: love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

Oh no! it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.