Retrieved online, told my poor interpretation of the French language, and other rigors discounting conclude that Roland Jaccard still alive. Information is nothing special, many people are still alive, against all odds. I myself sometimes, I be. Same
should write now to Roland Jaccard, put me through an admirer on the better fan, better rich admirer, single or widowed better rich admirer, and get their address, get on a plane and then standing up to the door of her house, wait patiently for me to open and then slap a resounding slap with an open hand. Then only would keep me warm even rudimentary weapon in his pocket and get out on the sidewalk, whistling sound while behind me the run down protests by French writer. Merde alors and Sacrebleu much - although the carrier's mantle is nothing of this man so distinguished and so worship not mine - and meanwhile reached the corner, to expect that life looks like for once to film and displayed a taxi just as necessary.
"Disease is the only work of pure art to which man can aspire." If you think about it is to go back and practice a second slap in the face of Jaccard. Being sick has nothing to do with art. In fact being sick and things to know is that there may be more fucking. The art is simply not like this disability for everyday wonderful, his anguish not giving up on the tea or reading, which brings me to the kitchen for anything and I plot the time periods of two minutes between which opens a vibrant same fault. Or rather, it is assumed terrible sick, assume that the brain is not capable of diagnosing its own operations, turn your eyes to the torrent of blood and to measure their purity or penetrate the web of muscles to detect the work already done to death. Jaccard
The phrase is used only if one is an arrant coward. Because then ill serves to excuse to do nothing and live as an only in terms of power than projected. Translated: I have an excellent idea for a business, but not put into practice, I'm sick. It will be in for some spirits that exclusion of the possibility of failure can be very comfortable.
For these cases the literature does not work. When science says no, it's best not to waste time with small hope that poetry offers. In fact it is better not to trust at all poetry. Science offers a diagnosis without passion, it focuses on the individual and is limited to their exact circumstances, without adding or removing anything, regardless of whether the doctor the night before has uncorked a couple bottles and has crashed the last to the locker room which still hung, like banners defeated in the spotlight at the British Museum, some evening dresses with jewels in the morning to come to settle. Despite all this, the doctor will see white as white say you do not mind, as not intended to create white tell, as you feel like going to lunch will say white. The poet however play their dirty tricks and tangle in hope or pessimism that is just yours. If the poet says Young hold, said hold the young man is no longer. If the poet says you are dead, even with metaphors of tightrope walkers and pink shells and (God forbid) will fill the certificate of his own accident. Or at least, if the good, right to the diagnosis, but the charge of interpretations. Oh, you're seriously ill, but note, note that this twilight. I suspect that the list of the slap goes to infinity. Better than the taxi takes me back to the airport. Although I may be afraid of airplanes. Almost as much as the disease.
should write now to Roland Jaccard, put me through an admirer on the better fan, better rich admirer, single or widowed better rich admirer, and get their address, get on a plane and then standing up to the door of her house, wait patiently for me to open and then slap a resounding slap with an open hand. Then only would keep me warm even rudimentary weapon in his pocket and get out on the sidewalk, whistling sound while behind me the run down protests by French writer. Merde alors and Sacrebleu much - although the carrier's mantle is nothing of this man so distinguished and so worship not mine - and meanwhile reached the corner, to expect that life looks like for once to film and displayed a taxi just as necessary.
"Disease is the only work of pure art to which man can aspire." If you think about it is to go back and practice a second slap in the face of Jaccard. Being sick has nothing to do with art. In fact being sick and things to know is that there may be more fucking. The art is simply not like this disability for everyday wonderful, his anguish not giving up on the tea or reading, which brings me to the kitchen for anything and I plot the time periods of two minutes between which opens a vibrant same fault. Or rather, it is assumed terrible sick, assume that the brain is not capable of diagnosing its own operations, turn your eyes to the torrent of blood and to measure their purity or penetrate the web of muscles to detect the work already done to death. Jaccard
The phrase is used only if one is an arrant coward. Because then ill serves to excuse to do nothing and live as an only in terms of power than projected. Translated: I have an excellent idea for a business, but not put into practice, I'm sick. It will be in for some spirits that exclusion of the possibility of failure can be very comfortable.
For these cases the literature does not work. When science says no, it's best not to waste time with small hope that poetry offers. In fact it is better not to trust at all poetry. Science offers a diagnosis without passion, it focuses on the individual and is limited to their exact circumstances, without adding or removing anything, regardless of whether the doctor the night before has uncorked a couple bottles and has crashed the last to the locker room which still hung, like banners defeated in the spotlight at the British Museum, some evening dresses with jewels in the morning to come to settle. Despite all this, the doctor will see white as white say you do not mind, as not intended to create white tell, as you feel like going to lunch will say white. The poet however play their dirty tricks and tangle in hope or pessimism that is just yours. If the poet says Young hold, said hold the young man is no longer. If the poet says you are dead, even with metaphors of tightrope walkers and pink shells and (God forbid) will fill the certificate of his own accident. Or at least, if the good, right to the diagnosis, but the charge of interpretations. Oh, you're seriously ill, but note, note that this twilight. I suspect that the list of the slap goes to infinity. Better than the taxi takes me back to the airport. Although I may be afraid of airplanes. Almost as much as the disease.
0 comments:
Post a Comment