The Diary Of A Survivor

Telling life's plots!Whenever I am told of it, I go back in time, imagining myself dressed in my one and only extravagant garment of thick camisole that my sister had given me. Worn out by the fights her droopy shoulders had with her mammary glands. The corduroy shorts, colorless and frayed, a sign of her depleted vitality and of so much transformation undergone, from pants to shorts. Of zebraized and topographic epidermal leather, for so much gazette to the baths. With a pair of lapsed slippers and fashionably wired Saturday and Sunday. Carrying textures, moldings, and dunes in the scalp, fruit of Mr. Makuvá's tasks, the family's favorite barber, if not the neighborhood's. The barber who walked the class exhibiting skills with his one and only rusty challenged scissors.