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The black soles

Close your mouth, passing by, peek, do no more than acts of cleverly spaced has served some purpose: input to JR, good boy soon to the revolution of bread hugs, strange invented a mythology about what were the times of the verb and made idiotic hit counter. Dress up the old lean meat Tusitala and takes to the hills to tell children stories of another time. The cretins are not heard of the idiots? Sit in a circle, draw the pouch bread and cheese and listen, because I speak the gold of a lost kingdom. The problem, which does not ignore the good Tusitala, is that children who listen, are the protagonists of that story honestly was not so. Children-old's good for them, however, listen to good prose the story of what did not happen, the vindication of texts whose value, alas, was the method.

High in the mountains gray is still hearing the roar of the horns of the old bulls in rut forever. Forlati Angresola and insist and insist, they meet and admire, white fuming by the lips, perch on the rock of memory, beautiful postcards of caper sign and run to the center of the valley to meet again in the middle of a thunder.
Across the world, La Comtesse, persists in the ways of the siren and meat sings winged sharp rocks against which splinter ships.
This aside
Morena glad retrospective. baidaliza Baidal than that. And Vice gift is stolen and turns off the lights.

say that creatine is not writing as mourn because dinner is over when we are still in the first course. But so are, I suppose, inevitable stained beings who live to remember. We do not anticipate the tragedy for nothing in particular boys, just because, deep down, we came by the tragedy and as wanting to walk a great failure that lead to the mouth. An epitaph of the realm to roll over the bar.

So for the moment not watered down the wine is not bad. It is almost never bad.

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Manuel's book, fragment Jaccard

"The violence, hunger, violence, poverty, violence, oppression, violence and underdevelopment, violence, torture, leading to violence, kidnapping, violence, terrorism, violence-guerrillas."

The text says only.

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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.