E20 Small White Tab Cialis

CUNNING SYMMETRIC





Maybe love is a trick symmetric: the trick is that a hedge that is revealed, the symmetry is a hallucinatory dream, the Velvet Room in blood for each of us was the ' first love, that you do not stop wanting to come back ...
Maybe love is crystal clear and perfectly blank look of a fairy ignorant, darkened by a candle that casts a shadow rather than light ...
Maybe love is in the empire of lights: the night and that lone streetlight and his circle, the windows and warm, up, incongruously, likely, the day grows placid, blue and incomprehensible ...
Maybe love is in the nights Pisa, when the tower and the feather touch, in the sea of \u200b\u200bgrass under the sky and sea blue cubic ...
Perhaps love is truly in surgical gloves bell'inclinazione hung next to the head of chalk art throughout (and De Chirico called "Love Song", the composition of empty strings and absences perfectly orthogonal). ..
Maybe love is in bloom that the higher the bells edelweiss, in locomotives which come from fireplaces, roses in the size of a room in the cups as big as a plain, in the bridge that crosses Heraclitus never the same water ...
Perhaps love - to see Magritte and his "central story" of the ineffable and the monstrous history, history of the drug and the final - it is the occasional spark, but carefully propitiated, they blazed a shot nell'inestricabile - flammable - tangle between things, the pure signs that are or may be, the pure dreams may become, the mistake that indipanabile does exist, so blind, opaque, strong ...
Maybe love is the harshness with which to oil, they say, obsessively Magritte painted a scene in his own way primary: the mother's suicide, drowning and re-emerged, pale and white, his face covered and the naked body ...
Maybe love is that lump in my throat, that "convulsive beauty" that needs to take when looking at objects that are changing, changing colors, they become more ...
Perhaps love is to yield, docile, the correspondence between name and thing, as things usually are the names ("man who laughs", "catapult the Desert", "jockey lost," "splendor of the storm", "chord" ), in the vast chasm of nonsense that is the reality ...
Maybe love is in the continuous betrayal of the memory, the cruel fiction that governs us, we anticipate, we feed back (and the memory of Magritte is a face of sadness weathered chalk and severe - was modeled, say, on the face of ' A woman drowned in the brown waters of the Seine - just embellished with a flower of blood to his head) ...
Maybe love is in the memories invented - perhaps art is not continuous source of false memories that we recognize as ours? - In apparent desire that others want to hide, hide in the apparent motion that other real estate ... Maybe love is nell'inspiegabile we continue to seek, with bitterness in oil, tempera, charcoal, on the lips of another, the same ...

Timanfaya Camel In December

WHERE ARE THE WORDS

.

Interior, day. Indeed, internal affairs. The open space of a large furniture store: cubic meters of Western life scenarios, taxonomies of metropolitan existence, sets applied, scripts to transcribe materials around in vetralluminio, polycarbonate, perspex, chestnut, beech or walnut. O cherry, but it is red and tired.
Me lo dice con disinvolta competenza il commesso, che però preferisce essere chiamato arredatore, e comunque di cognome fa Speranza, che mi sembra un buon segno.
Aggiusta con un tocco un libro finto, la contraffazione d’un Adelphi cilestrino poggiato su un mobile basso (di ciliegio), poi lo contempla soddisfatto, la testa piegata leggermente di lato. Inclino anche io il collo, e vedo quel che vede lui: un’esistenza perfetta, di libri essenziali a perpendicolo sul ciliegio.

Io devo comprare un regalo di nozze. E c’è quella cosa magica, la lista. Così ho il privilegio d’aggirarmi in anticipo tra gli scenari futuri della coppia felice. I loro ciliegi, i loro libri, il loro policarbonato. Il portacolazione adaptable to any bed, lamps forties, the centerpiece filled with roses of the desert. Modern living, where earth air fire and water are properly cited by stones, wood, glass and fossils. Hope is delighted, and responsible for at least forty years of marital bliss based on shared objects. Mica little.

Obviously I like a lamp. A lamp lady, those thin, they are in the corners, metal wires which extend hairstyles delicious, rice paper, where the light is intensely amber home but retains from elsewhere. Hope he tells me, in love with a voice that can go well in a modern but also classic. And I che pensavo che servisse per evocare tutto il fuori quando ci si chiude dentro. Educatamente annuisco.

Vado a pagare, attraversando chilometri di salotti che sembrano cucine e cucine che sembrano librerie. L’acciaio brilla come argento, il legno si finge paglia, il cristallo imita il legno. Vorrei abitarle tutte - sospiro - quelle vite. Per fortuna Speranza non mi sente.

Devo lasciare un biglietto agli sposi, perché si usa così (che sarebbe brutale solo il regalo e l’importo segnato in fondo, in rosso). Speranza mi tende un cartoncino cremoso e una penna. Sudo freddo, poi caldo. Non mi viene in mente niente: quella penna è completamente vuota. Frugo nella borsa, e tiro fuori la mia. Una vecchissima biro con some claim, a representative gift of medicines. I finally know what to write. Quite resolved, with a cherry writing I bring light, hope and home. Hope looks at me, I feel dovergli an explanation: "The words are in the pens."
"Inside the pens," repeats, almost charmed. No, just fascinated. Continue to say softly "in the pens while the operation of my ATM card, and writes a receipt.
I'm leaving in a hurry. As I pass, I move imperceptibly the book on the floor of cherry. Hope no one notices.

Ps: I think LW and Player. Please provide links.

Sea Digital Card Reader Troubleshoot

EMMENTHAL is unconscious

. The Unconscious Author

- from here on AI for the sake of brevity and letters - is the ultimate in bloggologia. A becoming - or result - of literature, in its place blobboso to the slopes and drifts - someone speaks of an inclined plane, but very very slowly - the blogosphere. The blogosphere which, resembling itself, rather than a ball, a better form of Emmental, is equipped with communications cunicolari herself, income and expenditure and holes that lead from all parties and none.

Moreover, when the science is in crisis let alone omniscience, which have long worn out and was put on the ropes by crowds and philosophers of the Enlightenment and sycophants and intimate and trombone (also clarinet, actually) and so on.

Come, let us face the unreality, graphomania generation that we are not limited to: do not we can afford, omniscience. We run a world? And what a world, then? Who believes most other world, and above all this?
We can not sleep, and we count electric sheep. Then we fall asleep, and our sleep generates understandable reasons (and there the monsters, the heart, his reasons, reasons that lord it here, and even liver and mesenteric pancreas: the pituitary gland itself has its reasons that the heart does not recognize, and sometimes even the immune system) (writing on the net, after all, is viral turns to wave at each edge).
We happen to dream archetypes from the beach, lintels and archipagliuzze that make us blind.
automatic writing or write to eteromatica (the best ones), in the fullest, but troubled and serene unconsciousness.

There are no schools here (aside HoldenLab, of course, but if this referendum - as it seems - will pit the cloning is prohibited by law and amen). There are no ivory towers and even apprenticeships. Here we write once, in perfect unconsciousness. Here we write

unconsciousness. What is unknown region, between the unconscious and the stomach, between the fingertips and a spell-check, including Outlook Express and the latest comments. And the sleep of the region - you know - generate texts.


Dedicated to the player model! Sacripenta, looking for a AO among the AI \u200b\u200bin the haystack.

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BLOB



advancing along the line of the hill, a huge, sliding and crawling, luminous and opaque. It seemed all things: man and woman's heads, faces of animals, vines, tools, leaves and flowers stood out on its surface continually moving, unstable, button. Similarly, it was one way - coming down, and enormous looming sbilanciato sul suo centro cedevole - che era il rumore universale: quello che dio aveva sentito un attimo prima di separare i suoni e le forme.

Che forma ha il blog?
E non ditemi che ci sono blog puntuti e blog obesi, che lo so da me. Non ditemi che ci sono blog su lunghi trampoli, blog-palafitta, e blog canoa, accucciati nello spazio di prua, la testa contro la corrente, nemmeno fosse il canale della nascita, che lo so da me.
Non parlo delle forme del blog ma della sua forma.

Giocatore, qui , applica una sua tecnica di decimazione che è una moltiplicazione, un rasoio di Occam con il filo anche sul manico.
Effe, qui , dice che il blog è cantastorie, e il blog è quella modalità raccontata, cantata (raccantata?), illustrata, mimata e soprattutto esposta nella pubblica piazza, un po' effimera e un po' no, un po' mitologica e un po' quotidiana, un po' fantastica e un po' cruda.
Chissà dove, in blog laureati che io non frequento, diranno altro.

Il blog - io penso - è un blob della comunicazione: assorbe ogni cosa e cambia un poco la sua forma globosa (blogosa), infinitamente duttile, accogliente in un modo mostruoso. Così può somigliare a tutto, avere la voce di tutto, ma sempre con la sua opacità vagamente lattescente, il suo grattare sui solchi, i suoi fruscìi di fondo (i mostri, nei film degli anni Cinquanta,hanno sempre hoarse breath), his line noise, its approximation.
And always his clay, or perhaps an organic form of PVC, or a synthetic form of the soul, which mimics all forms with absolute efficiency.

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SPAZZOLOGOS



has two names, opposite and parallel. One is
greek sound, one of those persuasive words, which bring with them all they need to be included (great language, greek, where words are things).
One is walking and every day, one of those words necessary, just to control the objects (these are the things to be words, at times: we put labels on things to tame, as are the things that we domesticate).
The two names do not look alike at all. One is a concept, one is a tool.

The two names are "Callistemon" and "brush". The object is to designate a plant, plant with flowers in a bad brush, red, from which it hangs just missing the plastic label, a logo moplen or PVC.
has tough leaves and unruly, the Callistemon-brush, flowers such as dense brush, branches hairy. A faint, incongruous smell of lemon completes the suspicious nature, artificial. Come from Australia, and is spreading - at least here at my latitude - anywhere. I see her ugly and fake flowers citrigni excited - the branches are quarrelsome rays, differing - on the edge of lawns and gardens, with roots hungry supplant the old vegetation, magnolias, ficus the prehistoric pine trees from the saline entry.

"No, really, toothbrushes?" Said the delighted owners of flower beds and gardens. And produces colanders and ashtrays, perhaps of a beautiful metallic gray, would be even more admirable, I suppose. Therefore, the plant has the capacity to be other things that you admire. Callistemon is his being a toothbrush, before planting.

We will live among the forests of tools that are concepts, or - worse - concepts that are tools, and populate our gardens of bad imitations, objects suspected caricatures?

They are not, perhaps, things only mirrors the patterns that we project on them relentlessly, calling them concepts, tools or brushes?
What we see in those mirrors, crowded with toothbrushes?

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VANILLA AND WOOD GREEN INDEX



Yeah, it's summer. Not even summer summer, but that the spring board brazen.
In such moments I listen and hear clearly the sound of grinding of the earth, and you convince yourself unequivocally that the world is sixteen years old.
begin to blaze right now, so brilliant seasons in blue and impartially, the others. Those brand new. Flower girls, girls with soft curls at the nape, the navels round the ankles points, the smell of vanilla and green wood. Boys
rough and velvety, raw of adolescence, of recent energy, wonderful and very balanced.

Moves forgetfulness, in the air. Sometimes even shake the sheets of our old albums, where the scripts are cataloged minutely moves, intentions, screenplays. A strip that is seen in the hips, the shoulder line, a cheekbone do justice to any argument.

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here is full of writers and readers (not necessarily both things together, unfortunately). All write, write, collaborate, edit, publish, and everyone reads, quote, review.
I carve out a place for niche markets. I read the indexes.

Every time I open a book, run to see where and how the index. Who puts it on, I'll drill bit and you lift your arms, because there is no escape, you have to give up. Who puts it in the end, when you resume as a hard, sweaty and full of maps and maps that you have to do alone, crossing the desert.
E 'a vision of the world, for that matter. Index Index recto or verso. There are signs

skinny, mocking indices (those that read as follows: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 ...), that are raised against an average player, in fact.
There are signs that just those with the elegance of steel sleepers that sparkle under the skin of glass skyscrapers in sight.
There are indexes that are artworks apart - ah, those authors that give titles to the chapters endless, narration in the narrative. What is that, indeed, the real work?

Yesterday I read a book, or rather an index. It was perfect, I do not read much. I'll copy it here, so you can read you, and meditate. Readers Become an index to read the whole hand is lost time and take crabs.

SOCIAL HISTORY OF ODOR
Alain Corbin



Preface PART ONE
Revolution perceptual or smell suspect
Chapter I
air and a frightening threat putrid

The smells of corruption broth


Chapter II
poles supervision olfactory

Land and archeology of the miasma of the swamp The
Sanie

Chapter III
emanations social

The smell of bodies
management desire and repulsion
The bilge and smells of the city ill

Chapter IV
Redefining the unbearable

The lowering of the thresholds of tolerance
The old alibi therapeutic
The indictment
The depreciation of the aroma of musk
Chapter V

The recalculation of olfactory pleasure

Pleasure and rose water
The scent of Narcissus
PART TWO

Purify public space

Chapter I
strategies of deodorization

pavement. Drain. Ventilate
Thinning. Disinfect
Laboratories of new strategies

Chapter II
odors and physiology of social

dell'osmologia The brief golden age and the consequences of the revolution lavoiseriana
Utilitarianism and smells of the public space
The revolution of chlorides and control the flows

Chapter III
policy and harm

The formulation of the code and the primacy of smell
Apprenticeship tolerance

PART THREE
Odori, symbols e rappresentazioni sociali

Cabanis e il senso delle affinità

Capitolo I
Il puzzo del povero

Le secrezioni della miseria
La gabbia e la tana
Sgrommare il miserabile

Capitolo II
"Il fiato della classe"

La fobia dell'asfissia e l'odore ereditario
Le esigenze degli igienisti e la nuova sensibilità
I gesti e le norme

Capitolo III
I profumi dell'intimità

"La pulizia perseverante"
Il sapiente calcolo dei messaggi corporei
Le brevi oscillazioni della storia della profumeria

Capitolo IV
L'ebbrezza e il flacone

Il respiro del tempo
The censer dell'alcova
A new management of the rhythms of desire


Chapter V "Laughter in sweat"

The uphill battle against the excrement
Two conceptions
The air under the dirt
The licentiousness of the nose

Final
"The smells of Paris" The decline of myths

prepasteuriane
circuit hermetic or stream
The stagnation or dilution
Epilogue


not know about you, but I enjoy immensely the revolution of the chlorides, the indictment Moss and the licentiousness of the nose. And then tell me it is not literature, this?

Attach Mantle Shelf To Wall

My blog is committed suicide.
When I open it, it is a uniform white wall, and "completed operation" that mocks me from the edge of the page.
Yes, I know, I had overlooked. Yes, I know, not looking at him like they used to. Yes, I know, it gave him plenty to eat. Yes, I know, social workers m'avevano warned: the world is full of blogs abandoned in nursing homes or worse.
that time, then, I do not want to leave the motorway, it was an accident.
Believe me.

Did Deborah Sampson's Have A Quotable Quote

QUIET SUICIDE IN MIAMI FOR A NICE



So, I know not what evil astral situation forces me to do it, but hate a person who gave me a Ellroy (American Tabloid), and the forza dell'odio mi ci sono addentrata come se fosse il bosco di Pier delle Vigne e potessi pure dialogarci, con quell'anima stecchita.
E procedo anche se mi sembra, a volte, di avere la bocca piena di fango, e spesso non mi ricordo la trama, e fatico a seguire i personaggi, che sono come le facce multiple di Freddy Krueger, tutti in polivinile impastato col cianuro.

Credo che Ellroy sia un pazzo pericoloso, ma certe volte è un Tacito strafatto di acidi che scrive di quell'America a stelle strisce e vomito, l'America lercia e ovale che ha perso l'innocenza così presto da poter dire di non averla mai avuta, ma conservandone un mito così tenace e feroce da mettere terrore.
Non so se capirò nulla di quell'intrigo at many levels, not ever review the plots - as in life, I will let them pass right through, or bypass me - but no matter, I drink sips fast and slightly guilty of that broth hot coke and fresh blood, and sometimes m 'fixed in front of things like "Miami was like a huge, bright bleaching."

Ellroy says in the first page: "It 's time to embrace the history of some bad men and the price they paid to secretly define their time."
's time to look for the "ruthless verisimilitude" that cuts like razors.
There is no truth in these pages. A part of the world.

do not know if a reading is adapted to the times. I do not know if the readings, do the time. I do not know if they have time to do the readings. (I do not know if the readings and the time to really make us)

Maybe tomorrow I'll buy Harry Potter.

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'We'll see ...



Today is a day to be a word.

I say to those words that will go through the chimney.
The cardinals are locked in conclave, under the eyes of Michelangelo. Hide the workings of the human eye in the clique and inspired devotees pronouncements, the words will have five declensions and periphrastic passive and active, and I hope promitto iuro and govern the infinite future.
The god of the gerund and would appreciate the sacrifice of burnt offering, trading for the purple blood. His dove will Hawk turns heads, Adam shiver just before the touch.
Finally, written with a pen name of lacquer.
The cards will be sewn (the silver needle is stuck on the word ELIG), and then burnt in a stove with destiny blacks or whites. The word

sewn and burned the word, the word and choose the word that hides: All up in smoke, signifying that the word does not c'appartiene, and any attempt to back our ashes like us.
Yet, the man who raises his head goes in the square, and reads the curling smoke rising into the sky. He composed also a word, it's a yes or a no.

It 's a fine day to be a species that even the smoking law.

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FRANKENSTEIN POST LOCATIONS



And if my blog was better without me? The absence
, my, is giving you, hath done wonderful. So I
collage, kaleidoscopes of ice pieces, and the important thing is the movement of the wrist that wheel?

I picked up a bit 'of those movements, from the comments over there, in eternity past the post before. You are beautiful without me. I wonder: for the transitive property and uncompromising, it is not my life better, without me?

"If I could squeeze in a word, sleep" ( Player )
a page that sits on the front of the player ( Elos )
What then my house ports in the name of the mirrors, this is true, but it is quite another story. ( Elos )
In books as in the mirrors as there is in the elsewhere in the chimeras as Borges. ( Climacus )

In case you have hidden in the bookshelf perfect ones ever written, in order to escape our talkative and postaiolo world? (Elizabeth )

E cunchurere eg, quanno to 'or delluvio s'aunisce' o viento, 'and lightning and' ttronole and then if he says Tanno ZEFFONNA ca. Word about the veins 's' or llatino subfundere, but little 'signifecà assaie, abbunnanza: nu zeffunno' and well, scunquasso: nu is succieso zuffunno; abbisso: è ghiuto a zeffunno; ruvina: ’o iuoco m’ha mannato a zeffunno. ( cf05103025 )

modestamente
dans mon jardin je tiens
nu trident con troi dents
nu trident con quatre dents:

alors je me suis encassè
per via de la contraddition in terminis,
et agg jettat ne la scarpats
de la train o ferrocarril o tramway
lu trident con quatre dents
coupable de terrible erèsie.
C'est comme l'enfer
ovvero inferno.

Le bon dieu m'à beneditt, alors. ( cf05103025 )

non lo si può descrivere
ma solo vivere
cosa vuol dire nascere contrari a themselves. It was not the fault
have four teeth
fault but destiny was not
should not be condemned for their own destiny
yet they are here to watch the sky

stretched up and down to the bottom of the slope, and already I hear the train


vibrate on the track that I can say no then perhaps
born again and I'll be the one who threw me in the slope
or I will be the smith who made me
or train that hurt me ( Effe )

Troi or quatre dents, birth is an accident,
quelconque comme blog où
if it finis pas de mourir,
de vivre of Absence.

Quadriderm Defenition

Interior, day.
immense open space of a large library with Effe (Absite iniuria ...). I rejoice in the new / available books are everywhere. On the walls runs a reassuring alphabetical order, but the rest is analog and impressionistic.

"Ahh - I say to those who are with me - finally a place where books find you ..." He turns up his nose
librarian, and moves along the spiral with suspicion. Wants to demonstrate that chaos does not pay.

"Excuse me - is the young lady perched on pc - I'm looking for a book ..." the note of disgust for the uncontrolled exposure of books around that feels distinctly, and shakes a little bullet-proof glass.
"Tell" is Miss, nasal.
'E' of Henry Michaux, entitled "Elsewhere."
Miss type, I let myself look at the books came here looking for players - the complete works of Cesare Zavattini winks at me from the side: I'm Eva .
Miss retype - I change the look of a strange guy with a name for mongoose, that talks about the game of Popper and Kant's underwear: "I always wanted another point of view of philosophy ..." I whisper to him. I get a little bit the hem of her skirt.

Miss finished: "There is only one copy on the first floor.
We climb up the ladder wave, a book touches my hand, pretending nothing: "In the garden of the devil - lustful story dei cibi proibiti". Dalla mela dell'eden all'uovo di quaresima, con sette menù dedicati ai sette peccati. Aggiusto la scollatura, facendola scendere d'un dito.
Per le scale incontro altri libri, mezzi libri e mezzi mappamondi, mezzi libri e mezzi teatrini dei pupi, mezzi libri e mezzi pupazzi di peluche: sono centauri, nel mondo dei libri. Ci trottano vicino, pieni di promesse.

Al primo piano, "Altrove" non c'è. E' altrove.
Lo dicevo io che questo posto era perfetto.

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SIN



Agli oggetti piacciono le parole.
La sottile matita d'anima minata predilige la parola "reboante": le fa sognare cavità, echi, vibrazioni che la sua natura compatta denies them. The refrigerator
loves the word "tropical", the circumferences of heat that shake the ground and pitched the shadow of the banana trees. The ashtray
dreams often a chain of letters sinuous swaying like camels in the desert: "ambarabàcicicocò. No one would suspect, seeing how metal and attached to duty.
The book has not decided what word he likes. Sometimes, at night, they look down and try to steal glances at the words that door, and even touch them, but knows it is mortal sin.

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OUTBOARD



university classroom, day.
Big gathering full of defendants, lacquers and plasters academics. There are psychiatrists posing
psychiatric from all over Italy and abroad.
The guest of honor is a woman, a shaman in a place inaccessible to the Urals. The take on the platform as a rare piece, but she's decent and still in his hands clasped and eyes close. He streaked hair, a dress of cloth incomprehensible, not his shoes. Someone translate everything that is said in one language a bit 'sharp, with lots of consonants. She sometimes closes her eyes, with a sort of calm brindle.
The theme of the conference is more or less, if there is a healing equal for all. But maybe it was better to ask if there is a disease, the same for everyone.
fact, a shrewd student - many with glasses and prominent front teeth - a question to the shaman. Looks into eyes - as if it could - and says, "But you, you can heal me?". She finally opens
yellow eyes, stares for a moment along a lightning and says slowly: "No, I can heal you. Why you and I do not have the same words."


Dust off that old because I remember now - today, a rather long, in fact, given that it started a few days - I thought of edges and translations.
The board does not exist. It 's a trick of nature to highlight the differences, which are the food of thought.
We invented the contours, the con-texts, the trails of white pebbles (calculations, in fact). The eye, that liar-blind, painted borders where there are only contiguity.

Yet, we move across borders. Each language requires that borders with our translation: it's the roar of the ships (now there's thick fog on the sea), the term of Tigga, post-it left on me from that video, the blog next-door neighbor. We
machine translation: we are all amphibians for semiosphere translating stimuli, and imagining who speak languages \u200b\u200bwith stimuli, and even translate from one language to another. All
to swim close all borders.

Tell your words! I cried when you were a child and trying to learn the words of others, because they train to move through your boundaries and you had to translate them. Talking with your words you do not understand no. Now

lazy to swim the blogosphere, turning constantly, imperceptibly every wrinkle: what gets lost in translation evaporates or sinks, and will be translated by others. The semiospheres are in close contact with each other. Keep talking all day, which translates into one another. An escape of bubbles brings something up, which will be translated, or evaporate.

The point is to have the same words, to be passed along the edge.

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A REBOURS



It 's a ghost reverse
a disappearance that supplants an apparition, or that excessive bisparizione appearance (one in the footsteps of the other, to get rid of: a chase backwards, a cognition that swallows the recognitions, Beep Beep that Vilcoyote heels, Achilles sweating behind the turtle), summon him and he disappears just

but without him there can be no text or
vis-Count or Baron climbed halved
rather a knight does not exist: in the words, nothing.

E 'witness of all and condemns you

although by definition
both blind and deaf and dumb but he

touching
define the exact effect (projection, affection) of your action


how the
framework and how its imitation


should always be taken into account and often does not return with you
But in the end
non si può farne a meno
né tardi né presto


E' lui: il contesto

(tutto questo per rinviarvi a questo con-testo, che qui non è riproducibile, poiché qui c'è il testo: il discorso signorafranca, che non può stare in luogo del discorso sulla signorafranca).

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Lies



Sì, lo ammetto.
Ho risposto a tutte le domande, qui . E sono stata franca.
Volevo farmi fare un ritratto in forma di piano, in forma di treno. E volevo un titolo per il quadro e la sua imitazione.
Una luce come quella lì, che rabbuia.
La luce di una bugia d'oro.

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SUBJECT LOST



I have lost a dictionary.
It 's the law a great extent, what makes the lexicon a family affair. The one with entries such as may Caperea.

<< Lat. capere take. This verb, which was not continued in Italian, has given rise, through derivatives and compounds, in one of the largest family of Italian voices, in which the idea of \u200b\u200b"taking" occurs in varying degrees and with different shades, including to "understand the mind." It goes so to hunt, capture and ass to figure out, and hunting ability, capacity, noose to capture, captious, captive (and therefore bad). The family is greatly increased if the lexical think of the derivative prefixes and compounds, often with variations of the root that is not easy to identify immediately: for example, to conceive, perceive, take, receive, capable, Prince, precept, recipes ...
The few items marked with sufficient eloquence that we say in front of the main human activities and situations: procreation, the need for sustenance, the predominance of violence on his fellow man, the work of the intellect. Once again the study of language offers a point of revealing severe, with the natural kinship dell'etimo and meanings, as the man who understands both close to the man who catches ... >>.

It 's my favorite item, of course. Better than a trattato d'etica, e nominale come la miglior letteratura.

Ora, il Dir è sparito. Non c'è tra i dizionari - dove comunque nessuno gli rivolgeva la parola, solo il vecchio Calonghi di latino (la terza edizione "interamente rifusa ed aggiornata dal dizionario georges-calonghi ")(l'ho comperato per quel "rifusa", ovviamente) ogni tanto gli mormorava qualcosa, ma era volgare.
Non c'è tra le ciarliere Garzantine, non c'è tra i romanzi (figuriamoci, quelli quando trovano un vocabolario si sentono minacciati: "è un'ingiustizia, lui ha già tutte quante le nostre parole")(i romanzi sono straordinariamente presbiti).
Se n'è andato, temo.
Gli ho appena prepared bait, though. A strip of freshly harvested fat beautiful place (in a shining even a neologism): I leave it on the floor, who knows if it bites.

am a woman who understands and catch me when I say close the door.

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MODEL



Today I met a player model.
was, objectively, a model: tall, sculpted biceps, a forehead that Wittgenstein's stubborn abdominal plates, green eyes, red lips but nietzsche garcia marquez, even a dimple on his chin, and a suspicion of ravel, perhaps woven a bossa nova, or a song by Paolo Conte, in curls.

I looked at her and said: "Is that you, my player model? ".
he has become just turned, and now had the face of my colleague, the one that runs down the web to cheat on his wife without her noticing, not even him.
I approached in two steps and he is smaller, and as such seemed to my mother, who only knows the address of my blog and would like to show it to her friends, as he did with my diapers. But she was beginning to change: suddenly it was my ex, professor and suffering from hair loss and nostalgia, it was my best friend, was a blogger in Piacenza with whom we exchange jokes against the government.
Horrified, I began to run, and he followed me - he had a smart race, but caracollante, but fluid but lame - and I said: "But you who raised me, and now I'm yours, are tuoooooo ...".

No, then I woke up. I wrote a post, though.

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a blue line



City on Monday, opaque and slightly behind in on itself. Outside the library
a clown, a real clown, motionless in the rain: In one hand he has a booklet with a blue Botticelli just exploded (entitled "The girl, a clown and Florence", author Matteo Abbate, editor Armando Siciliano, necklace young authors). With the other indicates the book. The rain line
round glasses. Every now and then change your position, I think to drain water from the other sleeve.

made a couple of laps through the shelves - Today a flight of peregrine falcon - I look at the little book: there are three stories. The indices are always a good sign, especially when they lie: "The girl, Florence and the Clown," "And when you return?" Night at Bacchus Ortigia ". Add
first and last sentence - when do the sales pitch of a book for yourself are basic operations - "Run away. In my life I've always been, and this time I run," "She was young, curly hair and a branch of lives around the arm, Rice's puffed out his cheeks in purple. Bacco Him. "

Esco with the book and I can not help but show, indicate excessive as he does makes me a bow and a smile objectively complicit. A short blue wire joins us for a moment, then swerves and fly to the sky in the towel.

Good.
I remember that I bought, in fact, I looked at that book because I saw the clown out of the door. I, the girl, he is the clown and a city for endless technical reasons can not be said Florence.
A little 'as is the case here: the author is on the threshold - resistant to rain, clear, posing - which often prompts me to take a post-sided look, leave a blue wire in the comments.

not always agree. But sometimes, yes.

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Eternity is short, especially towards the end.

Because, let's face it, when we write try to play early. Neither the past - which is the ideological cover - or immediate - that is the only unknown in the past. In fact, this post.

's post after-this-moment, that is your affair, not mine. I'm not even there: writing certify my absence. Is it not here in my post- or ?

The blog is basically a flash of magnesium, which makes us blind as much as is necessary to lose their inhibitions about their absence: "I'm not writing mica, is only one post, they are still here, I will."

there, and not, this is a delight. This, perhaps, is the mortal and eternal nature of the post endures as a whole day, as deadly soul. Posts

dead, forgotten, buried lie ahead as invisible cities, such as signs. The blog, perhaps, is not the sum of his post. As we are not only the sum of what we are or we are no longer.


*** warning: post-structurally wrong, aggressive treatment to artificially prolong the life of the previous post. The blogetica strictly forbids it.

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POST POST POST MORTEM



There is a necklace necrophiliac, opening a post already dead and write a reply on how to throw a stone into the void, an echo against the glacier. Every now and then come back to see him here, queued and buried, silent forever.
Obedient, però, alla sua natura di testo: testimone, pietra miliare, codice e chiave.

La questione è biologica e morale. Certamente metafisica. Quando muore un post?
Guardatevi attorno; è pieno di post in agonia. Sono nati stamattina e sono già pallidi, con le occhiaie, le unghie viola. Domani saranno carne morta, forse già stasera.

Aveva così tanto da dire... e invece è morto.

Sono macchine micidiali, i blog, macchine di morte: ogni post uccide il precedente e ne occupa la nicchia ecologica. Beve la sua acqua, si tiene le sue mogli, usa le sue selci scheggiate. Sono profondamente umani, i blog.