Acrostic Poem On Black Death

Assault Shards of hell

... After three weeks of being still inside the tomb, I still worry about my lucky readers and literary: really that vanity is the last to die ...

... Love is like the eclipses, rarely happens, because although in principle we can fall in love with anyone, in fact very difficult: it requires that half bubble that is our love will emerge to the surface and, moreover, matches that another bubble is incomplete love of others. Therefore, when it occurs, takes a moment like all bubbles and eclipses: love is perverse: it is like thirst or hunger, a need, but a distinct need which can not satisfy with any bread or a sip taken anywhere: it is a thirst that only water and a hunger for an exact person, but the person is cheating themselves, inappropriate, there is no way bathe twice in it, as the river of Heraclitus ...

... I call upon all the living forces of the country, young people who have fresh in our capacity for indignation, the true democratic spirit, which sucks spontaneous feel how it is conceived in past; I appeal to everyone, so that together we go to hell ...

... It is useless, therefore, describe the Devil, since, except the horns, which are the common denominator in all other respects each person brings their own Diablo in the pupil ...

... Life is a nightgown that others force us to adjust, always expect something from us that we keep true to ourselves, that we keep our word, we give the promise, and if we depart the runway, immediately rise outraged portrait of what we were to say with confidence: "I never believed you," or saying tearfully: "I've failed," and you have to back down, becoming the statue that others appreciate, resume their paper and run for the umpteenth time the crippled self-representation with parliaments tested ...

... They are six-thirty in the afternoon and no change of subject, I repeat: I am physical, spiritual, biological, sociological, philosophical, economic, psychological, chemical and mathematical sick of my life and, according to my calculations, you also Dear Reader otherwise would not be reading this book to distract ...

... If any reader has the privilege of selecting its writers, it's just that once an author to exercise the right to decide who will be their partners. I believe that the publication of a text is not reason enough for anybody else creates the power to stick their noses where they do not call, and as I will not return cryptic to remove someone from this page, I demand to happy to go away ...

An adventure quickly dissolves easily in acid dreary day: a quiet pivot returns us to the bed of hours domesticated ...

necessary to advance the steps are not registered in any circle, not even in the spiral of pleasure every now and then revived, and is screwed "customary love" ...

... love is not proof

intruders ... ... Sign the forces that conspire to make us lose the balance no more powerful than the magnet of the flesh ... not

... are sublime love the little hands, but the double claws which corresponded wish us away, the lord of the will, the cry now or never, we jump on the other ...

... I prefer to be expelled forever League of the writers 'realists' to suffer, as I write, these atmospheres of squalor mandatory, these characters bland and suburban who crowd the pages and the pupils of misery, "the true reality lies elsewhere."

Fragmantos taken from my book Assault to hell.

Military Hairstyles Updo

Wittgenstein umbrella

THE UMBRELLA OF WITTGENSTEIN




1. As people know or do not know ever, but sometimes falls total, suppose that the rain will meet with a woman under an umbrella. You say: I? and she was hesitant and surprised, weighing the pros and cons you says no, that umbrella is yours and you go. Suppose you obey and walk away and jumping puddles after a street, two blocks, three blocks to find a little roof guarecerte and there, precisely there, hiding the murderer was written would have to kill you and you come to meet with that of the money or your life, and you respond to life, because you feel wet and cold and wanted to die or to order a cup of hot coffee, but as in this hall there is a cafeteria, for you with huge knife through and from the ground towards your murderer lost your watch and your wallet behind the curtain of rain that leaves the girl who loved you no harbor under its umbrella, and when it happens: you die.

1.1 Suppose that heaven exists and that you come to die at six in the evening or, better, that your murderer will have killed at that time or, if you will, that time everything has synchronized coordinates with great precision timepieces for you to die for your country at six in the evening without you nor your murderer walked concerned about punctuality. If heaven exists, a quarter past six doors would towed by the smoke of a chimney next to where your body would have been. The doors are wide open, you walk, walk, looking for either side, but there is nothing anyone can not find: The sky is an infinite hangar, you think and enters the consciousness the image of women in the middle of the rain refused you dry shade of her umbrella.

1.1.1 Suppose that in addition to heaven, no God, your ascent and arrival are the same, only now are a counter and behind the counter, a green coat Butler beckons with benzine torch you approach. Das few steps and immediately discover the bright green of the coat that the sky is not the place for you, you're entitled to other hobbies: Death decoding the reasons why that woman refused to share with you his umbrella , and other matters of that sort. 1.1.1.1

Suppose there is a God and you're waiting, you cross the eternity and infinity that are not nothing but an endless stream of waiting room, waiting rooms and lobbies, and in the end, or you consider the end, you find some furniture like a coffee shop with comfortable chairs, blue plastic, imitation leather, and you take seat convinced that if God waits for you: you must get together Palpate him there with blue lining of the chair and your old habits do you want a milkshake, but God, even if you are waiting, fails and instead, associated with the shake and desire, what comes to you is the memory of the woman in the rain I said: No.

1.1.1.2 Suppose that God comes: travel advance may be identical except, of course, the color of the coat of the butler, because if God comes coat color must be bishop. You're sitting in blue plastic chair looking a milkshake and then God comes disguised as a waiter brings a tray of just such a shake that you want, comes with tie toilet bow and a bonnet on her head. You get up respectful and invites you to be, God will grant and invited him a sip of your milk, but he declines and tells you just eat, but thanks you have no appetite. You step back sorry: that was improper understand how confianzuda with which you offered the sip and, afraid of having committed an imprudence, questions whether you can smoke. I answered yes and even you accept a cigarette. Your hand trembles lighting matches to be human in the face of God. However, God wants and says: They are good cigars, snuff "blonde? No, you answer without realizing that fixes no less than God, are dark snuff. Is less processed, Is not it, says he, you answer yes, it is cheap cigars. As they are gorgeous, sure you breathe the smoke him and think they are not as good, but you dare not speak. God looks around and makes a commentary on blue plastic seats, something about that seems to leather. You give the reason, God finishes his cigarette and says: Well I, you know, I have to go, has been a pleasure. You could not manage to say anything and when God moves away from between the chairs that lined blue leather look, remember the way your murderer walked down the street in the rain and the face of the woman who refused to accept you under its umbrella.

1.2 Suppose also that there is nothing that you die at six in the afternoon as rain forces you to find where the hospitable roof to protect you and you seemed harmless hid the criminal who would kill a result of that there was a woman who declined to share her umbrella with you. The chimney would loose their breath dirty air, the rain cut through the smoke and soot would fall to the floor again, very fine powder that water wet drag with your last breath into the sewer. The next day your body washed by rain would be found: One dead, scream, but you would not hear anything, not even the sound of rain, or the footsteps of your murderer, nor the women not excluded you his umbrella, would not hear or you would see or would know nothing: no milkshakes, or conversations with God, and stewards of coat, or chairs that look like leather. There would be nothing.

2. Now suppose that down the umbrella she will answer: Yes, of course, come with me. And you, hesitant and surprised to have reviewed some of their earlier negative consequences, you begin to tell you that the "no" you said in another story throws you into the hands of a murderer and a chat with God and a number of assumptions that she celebrates laughing, just as they pass in front of the door where the murderer who expects you to get streaming to kill; long pass, and as the evening is for dogs and are just six, she proposes to enter the cafeteria is on the next street, which, of course, has the blue chairs. Enter, they shake the rain clothes pearl, and she asks you a milk shake and a coffee.

Story taken from my book God does play dice .

Is Mild Reversal Of Cervical Lordosis Normal

The Kabbalistic Language Manifesto Uchronics

Kabbalistic Language

write because I have not found a better way to touch you, or another avenue that this road of words from which I can show you a planetary system that I still have a deep estimate . How ensure that the day is sunk without object into irregular streets of the city? How to prevent escapes, you disappear to turn a corner? Here you get a buzz and your breath is the vapor of the ink to dry, this is the place to go off or where you expect me to sleep. Here it's always night when I come back after getting lost in routine, or after the chase, along with other crows, objects whose brightness was false. I acquire here that background that I carry, because it is not only your sex, or the magnet of your breasts overwhelmed in the table, not your stomach that ends in a black oasis. I write because it's not just your body and I nervous walking the suicide on the roof nor only time. It is rather a way for rolling vowels and sweat for your labios.Tú come here to collect what you need that depth, the following without which the months turn to no avail. But finding your own will not leave you: you think you are not completely, that is not yours you move your arm from the door when you say goodbye, that hand too interested in digging my papers can not be yours and your face little has to do with the line that will extend through the channel of these lines. And it is true, this certainly does not belong to you and this disagreement. Nothing here is like nothing, but each image is your image and every smile out of you. This is where I write a longer course a glance or a gesture path. Here, the smoke and calligraphy, make you lower eyelids and extend your body. Because in the end no good is elusive: neither mutilated flock of angels that flutter in the dream, or the days you do not remember a week going over and over again, not your mouth that seeks to escape through the left side of this page where you appear stretched free will. Are that hill momentarily as the waves of the paper, when my hand felt hindered by your appearance go back surface or placing dots and accents. And as you read these words, without being able to avoid, but you lower your voice, vibrating your lips and the sound travels you will piel.Después silence the streets that stretch until dawn and sleep for solitary lamps till morning, and will, no doubt about it, the endless drip of the alphabet with his phrases. After these words, let's see where my fingers turned into syllables they move over and get wet. Then there will be anything: at most a fingerprint to be deleted in your neck or on your waist. But now, understand, and not words you hear: the sound of the pen to draw your consonants, is the score that moves through your legs and spelling moons brand: your body is finally gasped.

Text taken from my book God does play dice.