Wait

Can't I, (can't I)

Could I, (could I)

Breakdown over subtle regards, I'm thinking of the story of Nabokov arriving at NY customs. Stateless guy, keen and bold, over the years he will teach at Wellesley and Cornell. Back then, the fate had pointed his bald head and permeate the glowing atoms that will make "Lectures on literature" a timeless book.

His journey without home explores the verbs of his marvelous books, a direct signal of the movement's talent. As now on the asfalt I see green to red and hum an eighties song about Luca: "not more, my name won't be on the door, living on the second floor."

eccentric russian genius, rules everyone's blank page!