Mountains Piano Notes

Genius!

P90x Week By Week Phase Charts

I look at the phone and I do not. "Hey, hello Ange!" Said the voice. No one calls me more angel, for almost fifteen years. Just the tone, a family joke and suddenly there I was Passatoland, which is not a place where no one has invented the word "smooth", thus elevating the legions of vegetables and legumes, but a parallel dimension, where things are exactly as remembered. Niceties: an answer exchange where idle glissando on the details, suspicious. Then the question: mica I remember the exact day he died my father? No, not the atmosphere (a nice sunny day), nor what I was doing (I read a comic book in my room, Master of Kung Fu Shang Ki), or what I felt at that moment (nothing), but its date exact. There may be a reason for a request like that, I wonder? Can. He wants to make the horoscope at the time when my father died. Check where the light playing millions of years before by groups of stars, which have meanwhile continued to move and perhaps even today there are more, it points in that day than that of the constellations, due to the precession of the equinoxes, not at all where we think they are, and what effect all this can possibly have had on the suicide of a man who, in fact, has never known. For this reason, calls me, and if there is a better definition of madness, I do not know. This should be the first surprise, but the first surprise is that no, actually I do not remember. I remember the month and year, of course, and until recently I could not tell the day. Today I am confused, I think, extrapolate. It 's normal now I am twenty years, he says. No, it has been nearly thirty, I say, and behind the breath, in the glare of the same voice I guess routine ever, the same room, pulled out two cigarettes pack of Camels and every day put in the round tin cans, the ritual useless, needlessly perpetuated. And under the jar the same table, sofa, furniture ever. A Passatoland does not move a leaf, and for a moment think that time flows differently for us. But is not the time. E 'movement. There are those who live like a hummingbird, who as a quartz. Total absence of movement, deep fear that prevents any change, any transformation. How long, he says. Yeah. A Passatoland is business as usual. In the meantime I'm in love, outta love, in love again, I had children, changed jobs, houses, cars, indulged passions, as unlikely places, cherished dreams, unexpected bits and just took an unexpected touch, hurt, buried friends, I am cut holiday sudden, remnants of joy and nights of anguish, shelters soft, beautiful eyes met and tried to keep open the mine. How much time has passed, since I saved your life? Ten years, he says. No regrets. Not one.

Chest Breaks Out After Shaving

no regrets The things that pass

not talking about something else, think more, do not want more. Money money money money power sex buy sell money interest investment money money money real estate shares wealth and then, again, money. So caught up in their race to wins the nonexistent even realize they are alive, unaware as algae. They talk talk talk and say nothing, they are already dead, the worms eat them, one and the others similarly indifferent, devoured in a calm, inexorable.

Back Of Ankle Rubs Shoe

Words and pictures

this happens: a publishing house that publishes a Very Famous Writer decide after thirty ' years, the translator of historical change, through translation of the new book by the Great Writer Famous to a Young Translator on top. Nothing to say, the work of the new translator is good (despite a questionable choice to speak face a farmer in the American midwest as a character of vigils Blacks), but the network are raised several criticisms. The most common criticism is that the style of a very famous writer now looks more like dry, cold, antiseptic. It seems that it lacks the poetry. The Translator Young spoke on the crest of saying, more or less, that his style is more faithful to the original, and the warmth and poetry that readers were in the Italian Very Famous Writer perhaps were the work of the previous translator that implicitly, had a worst job, less accurate, as they say putting his own. In this case, a hat should be done in the previous translator, urging him to direct a literary effort, it certainly has in the ropes. What I think, though, is that in translation there is a more or less accurate, because there is no absolute truth in the words. If you are in the country, and observe that building where you store the grain after the harvest, I use the word barn, and who reads the word creates an image in your mind, that of a barn. But what color is yours? E 'day or night? And what color are the fixtures? As the door is open or closed? There the grain that comes from the door? And if there are trees around, as I am? Maybe your barn is red with white window frames, or blue, and maybe a weathervane on the roof. Or maybe one of those wind-wheel? My certainly has one, and there are blueberry bushes at the back. All these things are not written in words, are things that come out, generated by the speech and made from memory, the experience and the unconscious of each one. Some time ago I suggested to a person Calvino. Palomar, which I felt and feel so alive and full of haunting beauty, he found it cold and repetitive, repetitive and cold that she is not certain. But somehow the words of Calvin as the read, Lei O how I've read, maybe. So I'm thinking, maybe the old translator in a warm, and when reading the writer so popular that generate images her words are warm and poetic, it translates in Italian as best he can, trying to maintain what he tried. And maybe the young translator on the wave crests in hand, has a cold and antiseptic, and the images it generates when reading the Very Famous Writer lack of human warmth, and that's making them. Then I also explained that when one reads a blog, for example, can read a sentence that tells you something, and give it a completely different meaning. We are strange things, we see when we look inside out, often. But seriously: what color is your barn?

Pokemon Ash Und Gary Anal

Portrait of a Woman Making

should be your choice.
Change, provided nothing changes.
It's easy, impossible, difficult, it's worth it.
His eyes, if needed, now blue, now gray,
blacks, cheerful, full of tears for no reason.
sleeps with him as the first coming, the only one in the world.

will give him four children, none, one.
naive, but very good counselor.
Weak, but will support.
He has his head on his shoulders, but the will.
Law Jaspers and women's magazines.
not know what use is this life, and build a bridge.
Young, as usual young, forever young.

holds in hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
his money for a long journey away,
a crescent, and a compress a shot of vodka.

Where is that running will not be tired?
But no, just a little, a lot, does not matter.
Either you love or is headed toward.
For better, for worse, and for heaven's sake!


(Wislawa Szymborska)

Samsung Straight Talk Phone Blue Tooth

There are things you learn. Over the years, by dint of experience, I learned to do, to move his hands and feet, to react with the innate tendency to action (in me) to turn away and let die, preferably immediately. Perhaps because Another thing I've learned over time is that girandoti the other hand, strangely, do not die all at once but in return, you make life much worse. So wings, blind fury to oppose the motion, the tantrums, depression and so on. That sounds simple but it is not at all and, moreover, is not one of those things that become easier with time. One thing that I have not yet learned, however, is the refusal, which would be one thing so if someone you love does something you do not like, you're not there to pay, do not close your eyes waiting to speak to the perfectly right incazzatura and even send her to fuck off if the measure of endurance was already full, but instead plant a pole, say "no, not that." Metaphorical two soft lips *. The fact is that I know why I did not come easy. It 'the first time I dropped the two lips of the above, when I was just more than one child, the person subject of the refusal made a violent gesture, and went away forever. Had nothing to do that first "no", rationally I know, but despite my rational consciousness, the fact is that this ability to me are a bit 'lost indeed, looking good, I was not even able to recognize it. Tonight I found myself the front and, for the first time, I realized that the two lips are not good only to those who give, but especially those who receive it. If you protect a person goes out they told me once and it's true, though opposed to his shortcomings as waste, but the revitalization. Oimmena, now I have to disassemble all the mechanisms that I had done forty years!

* Lips: backhand spring on the mouth (hence the etymology), physical punishment is likely to become the subject of proverbial painful threat, hence the warning "Give yourself a lip."