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(July 22, 2004)
What a desolation is Buenos Aires in this winter. Cold black night. I hear the whispers of the trees in the wind...why? Why me? Why IT? It seems that nobody sees her, the beauty, ever virgin hunter Atalanta, his arms call me to the bottom of the river. Now i feel a wanderlust...i got to move, i rather move from here...from the ancient days gone...
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