He's gone, Paul Newman, to make up a notch n'altra duemilaotto departed full of sad, for this I went to cut my hair, since time immemorial, perhaps because, like every winter I hope that this change something that is different.
But it will always be the same story. Racing impossible a few concerts, a lot of work, desire to remain silent, staring at the walls. For months.
A tidy mind.
How can you call this fair?
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