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Continúa6m
Última publicación jue, sep 22, 2016
Sempre que ele tentava escrever seus sentimentos, a caneta falhava ou estourava, espirrando tinta por sua camiseta nova e a folha branca impecável com uma linda ortografia.
Ele não sabia se era o universo estava conspirando a seu favor, se a caneta era vagabunda ou se a carta em si estava tão ruim ao ponto da caneta dar seu jeito dele parar com aquela anomalia.
Mas ele sabia de algo que era fato, ele iria se declarar, nem que compre mil canetas para terminar essa maldita carta.
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