caro Murakami,
ti scrivo questa lettera per dirti che forse non potremmo mai incontrarci in Giappone.
sto infatti andando incontro alla morte to sleep.
is a state of mind where you begin to Start on the bales, railing against the futility for yourself, where you get to cut the crescent with turnip greens instead of in and then you drop all the non-stick pan on the stove, except one.
you like broccoli, dear Murakami?
enough to me, although I have not yet figured out if the top turnip as such is considered to be the leaf or inflorescence.
and because they are called turnip greens? because peaks? turnips I do not admire a lot, but I've never seen one with the tops.
I leave you, dear Murakami, I leave you with this video, showing how bad I want at this time.
leave you with one of the songs more disgustingly terrible of all time, sacrilege of the saxophone.
I beg you to listen, if only to try to sympathize with my hatred of curly blond hair and a bit 'kinky and men who carry them.
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