Dan wanted to write a match report on plan events, but with a touch exemplary. As if it were a story of guilt and redemption. Like a novel where modesty did not matter or geographic locations or environments or landscapes, but only moods. Like mine right now, sort of reasonable eternity.
And as I write the story because the subconscious I keep a special place for the fucking master. The field. Leo Messi. Because today is back to make it clear who the better. Without any comparisons and daring. No conventional adultery. No misunderstandings. Without sambenitos. Without restraint. No alibis.
And with a look difficult to break. You like the taste like a liquor of life. As if a truce with life or death. But now I am content to celebrate the victory taking a walk in the jerk in me.
Leo Grande. Grande. Is already soaked the Golden Ball 2011.
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