I do theater. During Jean Laurent Cochet. But yes, ask yourself a bit, Depardieu, Lucchini, Hupert, all we will ever have is Him. A gay 80-Guru spring extends his passion for drama into eternity.
As I am a girl and so I was of little interest, I am not at the top of the performance, I'm relocating again and I knit. I knit comedy.
I carry you. All, I hold you with what you show each day. Your music, your voice, your eyes, hands shaken, your inflections, your inspirations, what you learned and what you are doing so well. Your accent restoration, I hear, I absorb. Anything goes. I'm sponge. I have nothing to give other than yourself. I watch you, I listen, anything you remember saying to myself. You are flagged somewhere in me, I spy that you have no idea.
You do not say no commas or periods, the last words are the first. It learned the rhythm, you are so talented. Sometimes mouths pinch after a word: the effect of shyness, lack of insurance? Hands, arms, and abandon themselves intersect at Throughout the service, the cross and surrender themselves to deliver the weight of feeling. You give me so I can not see it. Whatever you say, I see only your hands that intersect then awaken.
You swing your body on legs looking to dance your inflections so well understood and applied so well. You smile and eyes wet. You're in Ecstasy of such beauty and sorrow in this poem that you give. We must make this clear. Are you the feeling you're music.
Your voice does not dare him to the limit. Not so loud! You remember. You stand a little unbalanced.
There is, there your eyes watching a corner, there are tricks that prove you do your text, there are the quirks of your recitations.
I carry you all. Entertainers, liars, fools. Actors.
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