Y has good old Fred, who sings:
"heartbreak, death penalty
penalty of having his car srappé
A little trouble makes it hurt anyone
Until you know where c is t'la put ... "
(skids: Fred Fortin)
The heartache, I've lived, I saw her again, I read blogs, I thought, I wrote, I I chatted with friends, with relatives, on my balcony, on their own, at the restaurant, at parties, at the corner of a table in the corner of a fire and, after putting out all the theories, experiments and predictions, I come to these conclusions (a bit simplistic perhaps, but it's still better than nothing):
A real heartbreak is a sentence (like so) that lasts until it hard (hey ben) until, at a given time (after one year in general), we have done the trick.
Meanwhile, she works jointly with life completely in so far as to dilute it.
Only then can re-open the vault of memories with the seal of the old flame and finally see the relationship of a more lucid eye, with all that was grand and ugly, and say: "I do not really know how but I went through. "
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