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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.

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At home Sunday

Sunday

cloth slippers and three newspapers, the Morena anchovies flour with the jersey at the elbows, silvery little books together with a background of red pots and Fridays of Lent, haikus and teaching belly brown long shoal minimum jumps to the singing night. Afternoon

remember that no man of letters may not like Quevedo, childish pride to like Quevedo, to inquire in vain for the vast google in search of a story that Moore once told me, I think that in the bank a cemetery, although the likelihood of the image, evocative, real is almost nil. Siesta

thinking that if we get an injury playing is a drama and that discreet point of blood on the back is a scandal, mother, sell and see if you get stupid. But if it were a sword fight in the Hebrides, if you fall from a horse and turn on the frost to avoid a final lunge, then the wound is're lucky, happy sigh friends and courage for a while. The wound is the same, but the view change as a matter of different probabilities. In the nap tend to think things without thread and moral. Sometimes on rainy nights in the mouth of a cave with the wet layer on the shoulders and hands in a parallel double-barreled shotgun, while behind the trees, the wolf howls and the enemy creeps. Not imagine, are fictions happy. A symbol of sleep and respite.

and later recalled that come what may hardly come most magnificent peaks that Friday. In the Slaughterhouse, you all did to me, with joy, undeservedly happy. Then thirty-two more cups, I waited at the gates of coffee Ruzafa to take effect as the morning air to save me. After I got home, I found a strange letter in the mailbox, I snuff and food collection with Brown until now.

There SUCEN Sunday that stuff. And they are beautiful.

Note: What a boat to illustrate why the text? Do not make me explain things according to what this point.

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These are three people, living within us and around us, are everywhere, in the eyes of many people have seen and many times they have seen in our .

moody: This is the character who does not want to love, that has accepted its existence as it is, has waived his ability to transform. May live in luxury and awards, looks like a winner, but basically the ruler is his temper. Frown brow is what gives it the looks surprised. Not interested in anything really, just show that you are angry. It has no art, only the purchase, and not even really like.

The Rotten, is a hero, a long time that its reflection was launched in an alley or forgotten in a square, is that drunk in the middle of the night des sings a love for the moon. He is willing to laugh at each corner, find the wonder of the world in every minute is a silent character, sleepy. The events of his life did not have a clear boundary between dream and reality. It is a sailor lost without direction is not prepared to his ship ran aground at a port, is everything and nothing can be anywhere, so everyone can laugh. Within it also inhabits a child, in this case, not a moody child, but a child who will not stop laughing, not to accept a world that gives him seriously. Grey hates the world that sometimes haunts him is not made for that, so it's a hero rotten, all liquid and destroys them all is corruptible. He is not at the top of the tower, but does not want, that life is denied, he is in the suburbs, is that space decomposition, which begins to transform the world, but only destroyed. It knows that holding, at the end of the day is only the front of himself, and hence arises the art.


The optimist: Sunrise to him remains a moment of joy, smiles, and can look around and you breathe, you feel glad to be alive, to be in their shoes, but do not know well for that. Always has aroused, as if everything was new. For the first time is opening the eyes, and wonder of everyday detail, a plate of food, a bird, a plant.
inside him there is hope, there is a projection and the idea. Something may be different, there's something different in all things, that the world around him is not all there is, in fact, that world is not made of anything, looks like all living Something, suffer, rejoice, cry, cry, being that it is they who chose something. The optimist gets in life, and goes his ways without surrendering, not to get something done, do it for experience. His art is often like to imitate, to walk following a fat man or made business man. Often

optimistic rotten drunk and born with the poetry to life, sometimes accompanies the rotten optimistic a hill to marvel at the shadows that are produced there in the evening. The ill-tempered with rotten delivered to your pain and cry at the end at last, when with luck and goes out with optimistic also learn to laugh.

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The Discreet Charm of helplessness

Enemies leave its funny when we provoked anger becomes tender. Then all the grievances, the mutual violence, conspiracies, everything must be resolved in an embarrassed hug, a last look full of goodbyes and sirens.

The Follonero interview, talks with Federico Jiménez Losantos on the feast of the twentieth anniversary of the World. His last game abounded in feints and wet bold. Buffaloes were strong. Echoed the prairie. The sons of bitches that I have to put up, smiled Losantos. Do you mean for me? challenged the Follonero. No, how can you ask? Rioja confirmed. Then Frederick was the voice of the COPE franchise. Nothing escaped his intelligent malice. No matter that it was the weather forecast, traffic conditions or a control session the government. Frederick drew his r timid among disqualifications, and other artifacts boric slapstick. It was the immortal Spain waxing, Suresh sheepskins, counting ribs, winning, winning again and little joke.

From his side of the ring, the Sixth rode their commercial batteries. We want a consumer television embrosquile alpha when put next sun, Jaume Roures said, and so tended a bridgehead in the charismatic figure of Jordi Evole, a screenwriter-turned-actor and nurtured in the rich chests Terrat.

broncos were good times. Days of heroes and blood. But time passes and the conflicts that help us live away. Losing an enemy is worse than losing a friend or love. If your friends and your partner will always betray you can get the rough comfort of hate, but if you let an enemy then what? Then nothing, then looking down, then the tips of the shoes, hand in my pocket, I see great, yes, I also ... well I hope there. Goodbye.

Federico Federico is not. They hit a sotanazo and outside is no longer Federico Cope. Nor in the world, although the figure of the outsider grow now that Zapatero wet Pedro J and champagne toast in a hotel bed. Federico alone. Worse than alone. He is accompanied by his memories, the nostalgia of a grandeur that did not happen. I always will want to don Federico, said his family but was a lie. At least I knew.

The reunion between Losantos Follonero and has been the embodiment of sadness. Federico is shorter even than Jordan, and parked side by side to him as a child, he wanted to close the camera brightness of La Sexta. With him went the Minister Sebastian, Zapatero and Pedro J. He was regarded as the brother drunk who vomits at the door after Christmas dinner and disgusts us because we know that sleep alone in a dirty room full of handkerchiefs with stiff semen. All three were laughing. It was the Follonero after hug. Federico was allowed one last cape fainted. Arc across the party opened up the tail of peacock for new friends.

Losantos still smiling. Without understanding exactly who was now. Now that was no longer an enemy. Not even an enemy.