And myself...

When I write my stories, I feel like if my life or a piece of the sou remain enclosed within letters, swimming in eternity, When I write my stories, the pieces of soul are dancing upon Tyne, as the petals of a chrysanthemum which burns itself too provoke a bed smell, a sacrifice of flavor. My flowers that they've importances are the chrysanthemums, lilies and the tulips. But the flowers in my writing have not appeared frequently.

The flowers and my writing, but the literature is the flowers and song of own life, but my letters are very mellows and common figures; but the feelings and their relationships with the words' world tend to be described by common metaphors. Well, I'm being or becoming a man of excuses.
Long ago I wrote about my writing and my reading, leaving them in the background in my charts, I've always been thinking about my problems and my confers moral mood and let the books in the bookshelf. Long ago my writings on this charts are boring. Well, what was the last book I read? I'm reading two books at a time, now I0m reading "Gilgamesh", and "Howl's moving castle", and the last books were "Las horas fortuitous" and "El novelista ingenuo y el sentimental".
The first book ("Las horas fortuitous") was a thing-stranger, because it is about the homosexual relationship between two guys, who lives in Zacatecas. If I read like a tourist, I know the citiy, Zacatecas. The second book was a teoric maters to write my novel.
Speaking of my novel, I need to write it.