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

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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.