Tracky My friend has a bar. A tiny bar.
If someone wanted to niggle would say it is a long narrow corridor with a bar and benches. But none of those found to be passing (or get stuck there) has ever thought of. The bar
Tracky is a world beyond time and space under the door of the course (some people call it input, but it would be diminutive) find what you need: a friendly face, a cocktail at the right time, potato chips (Those hot that you destroy the language and allow you, in times of shortage, to feed on growing conviction that plasterboard fillet of beef scottona). Speeches made stupid, but enlightened. Serious, but never granted. Always find someone to take the piss (it's free, as the canon rai ... sorry, I'm told by the director that the fee is not rai free) or console you when you're in a good mood.
Tracky you care illness to the sound of the beats, and when you are caught by "loss of meaning" gives you a good headache alcohol to make you forget the psychological impact with the ground.
So there is always someone who picks up the pieces and rincolla, but more creatively.
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