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Vill Glück zum Geburri, Ki!

My Snowy, you are therefore reached the halfway ... But thee still do the other. Go ahead, do not stop, I go with you. To the end.

Happy Birthday, K!

I ha di gäärn thy

Dreko

January 19, 2011

How Much Are Wallaby Shoes

Nostalgia of the Tyrant, version 3 - Chapter 1: The Wave Blind

Third test, the good this time perhaps. Believe it:).
So I mix two stories that I turlipinent from a lease, path thinking and nostalgia for the tyrant but I think they will marry well, we'll see.
is a first jet resume pieces that I already wrote but which is largely rewritten from scratch.

main musical inspiration: Corvus Corax - Florent Omnes

sheet Slowly swirled toward the ground, red drops of dew gliding along the smooth surface than light stroking. His eyes followed her to the ground where it landed slowly in the open hand of a corpse pale. He felt frozen, spread fear in him. Where was he? The noise, the smell of death, sweat and guts emptied. His eyes fell slowly to his own body, his hands empty but covered with blood and fresh earth. He knew he was down to his knee, he felt the moisture that slowly passed through his shoes. Or maybe it was the rain, he had just realizing she was falling. Small blood-filled trenches fought their way through the mud. And everywhere, as far as he could see cadavres.Lentement noise filled the space, battles were not over. He walked slowly and painfully, as if he had not moved for hours, his aching limbs ached.

He approached the edge of the woods and the noise grew, growled: groans, shouts, the clatter of whips, voices of hundreds of thousands of voices chanting in unison, or disheveled, praying, screaming without agreement . He blinked again and again, driving rain, crying, why he was crying? Finally he was able to distinguish that which had previously formed a wall on the horizon vane. A human tide monstrous advancing inexorably to loss of a wave for creatures tortured, naked, blind, eyes milky-white on the wide open sky filled with ominous clouds, mouth open to their entreaties. They limped chained together by a hook planted in the flesh to the bone. Opening infected wounds, black, teeming with worms and flies. Some would stand on the other died before were still trailed by the others until they no longer get anything from them that rusty hook, black clotted blood. They are in darkness, jostling each other and slamming behind the whips of their masters. Blind them also whose sole purpose was only to knock them into a single rate known to them as if it were their last, their sole reason for living. He was petrified by the landscape of nightmare, this human tide wan cut to pieces the last pockets of resistance that still stood in his way. Groups of lean men, clad spears impaled on which the blind. Causing the spikes in their fall, still air and then hitting the ground while praying and groaning in pain. Other trampling the dying and their continued until there have nothing against them.

They came chanting and hitting the edge of the trees toward him, her, still petrified with horror, the legs of cotton, wet hose.

forms continued to beat the air, attacking even the branches and trunks of trees, reducing them into wood chips, spirit away, overwhelmed by grief and madness, obsessed by the prayers chanted "Maeror abit scaebilus "A hand grabbed her wrinkled arm, shook him violently" Run sir! Flee they have no mercy, the day is lost, it has always been "the man spat at his feet, looking scared despite the weight of years that made him a veteran. He did not wait for an answer, and plunged deeper into the woods. He watched him disappear among the dark green of the forest. The wave was approaching blind inexorably plunged into the undergrowth. He saw behind the men who guided her on horseback, shouting orders, hitting the poor wretches, and sometimes running after a fugitive, a man who had been able to escape by pretending to be dead or running. It was time to leave, he never knew why, despite the fear he had waited so long to contemplate death, death, move on. But finally he ends up turning on his heel and fled from where he saw the other man go.

He ran and ran again, his first tentative steps, short of stumbling, his hands catching up to the bark of trees, rubbing the skin. But he welcomed with kindness this stinging, blood pulsating in his fingers, which reminded him he was still alive, he redoubled his zeal despite the muscles were burning. It would almost laughed with joy to be alive because he did not know where he came, did not know who he was and his mind was a vacuum on the one thing he knew about his past. Rocked by the clamor of faceless men and their prayers receding slowly.

... She had brown hair, pulling the red, tiny waist. He had wanted her as he had just entered the room. His member was stretched against his heels. His entire being seems to stretch toward her, trying to reach faster. He closed the door and waited at the entrance. He needed to touch it, it was so long. She clenched her shoulders when she heard, she knew it was him. She had always had the gift to feel it, read it as if it was transparent. It had thrown in the beginning, He was so smart, so secret.
He opened his mouth to whisper his name, his hand rose slowly, anticipating the stroke he gave him in a dream already. But she turned suddenly, breaking the daydream, bringing it to the sad reality.

"Vas-t-in, you do not understand? I can not take more than your love, your pain." She threw herself upon him, her eyes red from crying. Since she knows I'm coming thought he bitterly. Formerly, it would have taken her in his arms, the left would hit its small delicate hands, he would have jailed her waist, her hands have caressed her mouth would have sought her lips to silence his feeble words of protest. Maybe he would have slid his hand between her legs, or would he thrown on the bed where she would have fallen into submission. All this would change his not so offended by begging.
It would have taken and would have wept for joy this time. Past. But not today. His letter had frozen heart and even if he loved her and wished he could always much more to impose. He could not force her to love him if she said to love another. Even though he knew she still loved him. But why?

A husband that is wrong, we know it, you love dearly, there is attached but he lost the power of novelty, a suitor was another matter, regardless of its origin status (he hated it already), he had power, enough to seduce, lie and dazzle.

another lover than himself, more present, closer, more real so that took away their uniqueness to him, his place as king in her eyes and above his heart. He would have struggled as do the roosters and dogs but it was too dignified for that, even for her. He would not be different from the one she had loved. She told him she still loved him and he did not understand. She loved him so but by default without having a say. She loved as one loves a painting and not what it depicts, much less the artist. He loved her despair because despite everything he had in life, he did it and somebody had made, not worse, she had given. First come, a very intelligent, very charming, a good man probably if we had confidence in the verdict but another man anyway. He had suffered for some time locked up, decided to live without it, to live despite it.
But he could not really, so he had come to see.

And now here he finally understood it was wrong, or had ached and she had another way to live it. It saddened him and he winced. His hand instinctively on his belly and then he felt the tears flow without having had time to remember, but despite all his desires to implore her, to keep from getting angry and taking it there he did nothing. He forced a smile and said "I understand, it's probably better that way. Amelia I love you, take care of you.". It faded slowly, looking to separate their image in the mirror instead of probing eyes, she was like him, blue gray, afraid to see a glimmer of hope, desire. The door closed again without kiss that mouth perfect. The door closes and oblivion took the step. Only the pounding of his legs were. Who was she? Who was he? He does not know and the tears continued to flow, the pain of her muscles mingling with that of the heart, and he wanted to run to the end of the world had a case there are any.

Primary Employment Brazil

It was once in Panarea ...

photo: andrébessa

A large blue horizon.

Skies for infinity.

pebbles around you

to freeze your thoughts

in my heart, my heart.

At Panarea, these days, the good life was done in blue on blue.

How Much Do Weaves Shoes Cost

ROAD TO THE SUN

That day, in the light of meridian Kreta you thinking if the sea was before, or if it was left, or if model was quite right - but never behind us. Yes, my girlfriend, Those Were the Days ...

18 Wheeler Truck Made Of Wood

Templars


Andre BESSA: The Templars (2007)
mixed media on canvas, 135 x 100 cm (Private Collection)

The Teams Playing Strips

II


Andre BESSA: Insomnia II (2009)
mixed media on canvas, 80 x 89 cm (Private Collection)

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INSOMNIA INSOMNIA I


BESSA Andre: I Insomnia (2009)
mixed on canvas, 110 x 86 cm (Private Collection)

Womens Private Selfloving Sessions Gratis

Nurturing a story idea

Ah! Write, what a curse! I mulitiple tests, chapter, two, sometimes longer lie on paper and there are losers. Lack of time especially, perseverance (also) humor (sometimes). I console myself by saying that it allows me to nourish the story I have in mind (provided that there rest).

The draft and test first chapter published recently (relatively) I always try, still waiting for a transcript of my paper notes (the issue in these cases is mainly to know whether the work is worth the candle, candle very useful when you have to look painfully on the piece of paper filled with writing and jolting fever (caused by transport and not the madness that is watching me)) even if I write another since the first chapter ( third test of a story that haunted me for almost 2 years), the idea comes gradually to link these stories (not just to pretend that I have three now Chapters saw that I will probably rewrite everything) because he must admit I have another missing is that of not knowing where I go (except for a vague idea of what I want to tell but obviously if the origin and purpose, distant, are leading the way it has not germinated). I operate on instinct, mood (mine of course but also that of the characters, a whimsical wish requiring control, punish, isolate, and the other lost trying to follow and learn. It I need to find spaces where his characters can flourish and that's not all because now I have more claim to want to do it all pleasant reading (where the bottom hurts me tell you) and I can not help but for now not to be satisfied with the results, it therefore makes perfect but my attendance is so it will be a long process. I hope to resume by the end of the year to fix and I finally see it grow a project that tickles me for far too long.

Pulsating Upper Foot Pain

Path - Chapter 1 A draft

I start from a totally different side of what I did before (probably due to my weariness towards fantasy) I look over something in the idea (without judging the quality of what I) Voltaire's Candide with the inspiration and ideas coming. Although the basic idea came to me while listening to the new memory of Dominic A.

She had brown hair, pulling the red, tiny waist. He had wanted her as he had just entered the room. His member was stretched against his heels. His entire being seems to stretch toward her, trying to reach faster. He closed the door and waited at the entrance. He needed to touch it, it was so long. She clenched her shoulders when she heard, she knew it was him. She had always had the gift to feel it, read it as if it were transparent to it. It had thrown in the beginning, he who was so smart, so secret.

He opened his mouth to whisper his name, his hand rose slowly, anticipating the stroke he gave him in a dream already. But she turned suddenly, breaking the daydream, bringing it to the sad reality.
"Go-ho, I do not want to see you Roman, you do not understand?" She threw herself upon him, her eyes red from crying. Since she knows I'm coming thought he bitterly. Formerly, it would have taken her in his arms, the left would hit its small delicate hands, he would have jailed her waist, her hands had fondled her mouth would have sought her lips to silence his weak words of protest. Maybe he would have slid his hand between her legs, or would he thrown on the bed where she would have fallen into submission. All this would change his not so offended by begging.
It would have taken and would have wept for joy this time. Past. But not today. His letter had frozen the heart and even if he loved her and wished he could always much more to impose. He could not force her to love him if she said to love another. Even though he knew she still loved him. But why?

A husband that is wrong, we know it, you love it dearly, there is attached but it has lost the power of novelty, claiming it was a different matter, regardless of its origin status (he hated it already), he had power, enough to seduce, lie and dazzle.
another lover than himself, more present, closer, more real so that took away their uniqueness to him, his place as king in her eyes, and especially in his heart. He would have struggled as do the roosters and dogs but it was too dignified for that, even for her. He would not be different from the one she had loved. She told him she still loved him and he did not understand. She loved yes but by default without having a say. She loved as one loves a painting and not what it depicts, much less the artist. He loved her despair because despite everything he had in life, he did it and somebody had made, not worse, she had given. First come, a very intelligent, very charming, a good man probably if we had confidence in the verdict but another man anyway. He had suffered for some time locked up, decided to live without it, to live despite it.
But he could not really, so he had come to see.
And now here he finally understood that she was in pain, or that it had hurt, it was another way to live it. It saddened him and he winced. His hand instinctively on his belly and then he felt the tears flow without having had time to remember, but despite all his desires to implore her, to keep from getting angry and taking it there he did nothing. He forced a smile and said "I understand, it's probably better that way." It faded slowly, looking to separate their image in the mirror instead of probing eyes, she was like him, blue gray, afraid to see a glimmer of hope, desire. The door closed again without kiss that mouth perfect. The door closes and oblivion took the step. The complete oblivion.

I blinked, slowly at first, the space seemed to grow around me, the air is cool, light invade my vision, blinding me as does the sun when it violates a chamber patient by opening the curtains. I wore a protective hand to my face, I tried to say the least. My arm hung limply stayed by my side, inert, while the right regained sensation in my body. Pain and ants were spreading through me, I winced. Stiff, I took the time to look around. An unfathomable forest, fresh, almost cold, inextricable, tangled, the sun piercing not the foliage. I felt like I feel humus far because while she was breathing decay, decadence.

I coughed, without knowing why, the sun, the freshness, the body resumed his duties an instinctive reaction and protest.

Slowly my eyes veered to his right, running on the plain between me and the forest, I on my stump, the plain was reared in the sun and stretching into the distance, rising in gentle hill where digging a path brown earth. There, the road, there was fate, because I felt the top of the hill drew an innocent cross-timbered inn reassuring human like the smoke that seemed barely perceptible outside the thin chimney.
"You have finally returned to the living world?" I jumped on the spot, tried to look back in vain, his legs still asleep and I do not obeyed me m'affalai softly on its side in the grass like a puppet, which had played a trick which we ' was bored.
I do not remember anything, except the dream, the memory of this love that I already burned the entrails for a woman I did not even know the name. Which I knew nothing except the hair, mouth, eyes, a body that I can almost feel my fingers. But the worst is I knew even less about myself. Panic seized me by the throat. My memory had been erased completely, which made the scene one minding the mind even more haunting, more real and capital. My heart beat faster, I still tried to get up at me wagging gently in the grass. The man, for he was one who had shouted slowly approached, looking at me, curious, head slightly bowed, wondering what freak he probably alpagué there. Her curly gray hair and a battle seemed appropriate age. It seemed, however, carry a attention to his goatee that delineated lips pouting. He was kind enough not to laugh and handed me a helping hand.

Weakly I rose, still wobbly on my legs sore. "Sorry to keep you scared, you are still since yesterday evening at least. A real curiosity about the region. "My throat
was too dry to speak, I merely respond with a thin smile on my lips cracked. Croacia J'émis a kind of comic. The old man smiled: "You must be hungry, come with me to the inn, you will perk up. I smiled again, relieved to find a humane environment, food and especially water. God I thirst. But as I approached
and I was anxious, frightened. It Would there people there. Perhaps even people who knew me or hurt me. Because we had made me one way or another I was sure. You can not get a sudden loss of memory apathetic while walking in a field. I did not know what I had done but I did not want to meet with officials. I slowed down, I tried to keep up with my jovial companion, who already salivating at the thought a good meal. Finally, I stopped completely. I had nowhere to go, apart from the strain where it all began. "It is as if I were born today, already an adult."
The old man looked at me quietly while I tried to explain, the words were hard to come out and as I had not much to tell I do not hide anything. I had returned to walking and talking to her. I understood, I think, that I wanted, not needed to see her. And so it
before a generously filled with meat broth that I finished explaining how little I knew about myself. I talked about it already so that the old man, Tuvan Master, had understood that I was hopelessly in love.
- That is very strange, because you say, I think it has, forgive me, the same eyes that you, deep blue. Outside your eyes are a common brown. No offense of course. Here we are trying to unravel a mystery and that already excites me. Are you sure you not to cling to a dream?.
I felt my face as if instinctively I could well see the color of my eyes. A feeling of anger came over me. Who was he to so doubt my love? I clenched my jaw and fists, ready to get up and go again but I did not know where to go and it must be admitted fear of the unknown was very strong because everything had known. I finally admit grudgingly that I did not know that only my feelings, needs, and lack the warmth I felt in his mind convinced me of the veracity of my only souvenir.
He nodded "Because it's our single track on your past so we will follow." I protested weakly both reassured and worried that he wants to accompany me. He said he could not miss the opportunity to help study and one so strange as me.

I remembered having had a glimpse of my reflection in her own room, briefly during our separation in the mirror in feet that seemed to mock. My eyes were blue, my delicate features, her nose a little long, dark brown hair falling over his forehead. So I asked our host if it does not have a mirror, this utensil expensive and frivolous and fortunately was the case for its more luxurious room she directed us not to tarnish under any circumstances.
My shock was hard because I just was not myself. Where I remembered my face was elongated, thin, my blue gray eyes, my eyes and tortured severely, my mouth smiling. I had a look here simpleton, traits rather round, small nose and brown eyes, his face drawn with fatigue. My first instinct was of course to say "Not me" after all this was perhaps not that my memory had been erased but that my body had changed.
To which Master Tuvan replied: "Oh I protest you are you, the question is whether your memories are real and if so, whether they belong to you because a body is a body, it is not out of the blue Mr. hand, it must mature in the next stages of life, the spirit is quite another. This body is yours and you had all your life, you have lost your identity. "
I was slumped on the edge of the bed which adorned the room (with a mattress! But I did cure) more richly decorated than the others. Probably for travelers to the very full purse, much more than mine. I am surprised to have one.
"I'd say you're looking for a merchant or a craftsman but not a noble one. Outside the field that you have described is clearly above your lifestyle and mine also. It is not impossible that a nobleman falls in love with a poor guy but not so want to make her life with him, let alone the power off is what you seemed to expect. I'm afraid this is just not your memories. As yours have been supplanted by this ersatz life of another, intentionally or not. Personally, I think you have been used, you were either stolen your memories and that these are traces of tampering or we wanted to get rid of incriminating memories for one reason or another. " I protested weakly
"But ... I love her."
"O, that I doubt not, normally I will try to advise you to forget in the arms of another but in this case it would be cruel because it would do nothing of your past. Moreover, I am afraid that it would not work you are so attached to this memory that could kill you forget it. Love here is something so reassuring for you, you've captured the only thing you could and now it is too late. Once the poison is in the body one can only survive and not out. "
- I do not want the checks out, this is not a poison! I replied, stubborn.
"O it is quite a well, the lack of will slowly eat away inside you, a gaping hole you dwell day and night without ever leaving you. The sweet thoughts about it can make anything else insipid, unworthy of interest. In short you are bewitched by someone who probably did not even ask who does not know you.
I muttered a weak "I do not know" What did I know in fact of life that I had forgotten everything?
"Nobody knows" he replied compassionate "That's what makes you so interesting, you have so little certainty, pre-made opinions. I'm sure that despite my scholarship I could learn a lot from you. A man on whom habits and customs have not been made, it is unexpected. "
I shrugged without really knowing what to say. We talked a little but I was tired from all his emotions which had invaded and disrupted today.
So we hired a room and I quickly slumped myself into a deep sleep. In my dream, she walked away constantly and master Tuvan kept telling me pulling my sleeve "This is a dream, it's just a dream." I wanted to call him by name but I do not know. I wanted to say "That's me!" but she did not know me. I could not even tell him who I was myself. And that laugh Tuvan master, he laughed and laughed and I heard her laugh even when I opened my eyes sweat. I was aching and I felt to be even more tired than yesterday. We left late in the day, the sun was high in the sky. This does not seem to worry that my boyfriend he told me, used to travel the world, walking long and sleep on the floor. I told him were so grateful for letting me sleep. When I asked him where we were going he replied. "Far from here, you do not focus."

20 Questions Genie Game

I am still far from final, it is actually the fourth time I do a variation on this theme and then eventually I will have at least a first chapter. So one of these variations (Or early).

She had brown hair, pulling the red, tiny waist. He had wanted her as he had just come into the room. His member was stretched. His entire being seems to stretch, seek to achieve faster. He closed the door and waited. He needed to touch it, it was so long. She clenched her shoulders when she heard, she knew it was him. She had always had the gift to feel it, read it as if it was transparent. It had thrown in the beginning, he who was so smart, so secret.

He opened his mouth to whisper his name, his hand rose slowly, anticipating the stroke he gave him in a dream already. But she turned suddenly, breaking the daydream, bringing it to the sad reality.
"Go-ho, I do not want to see you Roman, you do not understand?" She threw herself upon him, her eyes red from crying. Since she knows I'm coming thought he bitterly. Formerly, it would have taken her in his arms, the left would hit its small delicate hands, he would have jailed her waist, her hands have caressed her mouth would have sought her lips to silence his weak words of protest . Maybe he would have slid his hand between her legs, or would he thrown on the bed where she would have fallen into submission. All this would change his "no" offended by "yes" begging.
It would have taken and would have wept for joy this time. Past. But not today. His letter had frozen the heart and even if he loved her and wished he could always much more to impose. He could not force her to love him if she said to love another. Even though he knew she still loved him. But why?

A husband that is wrong, we know it, you love dearly, it is attached but it has lost the power of novelty, claiming it was a different matter, regardless of status, its origin (he hated it already), he had power, enough to seduce, lie and dazzle.
another lover than himself, more present, closer, more real so that took away their uniqueness to him, his place as king in her eyes, and especially in his heart. He would have struggled as do the roosters and dogs but it was too dignified for that, even for her. He would not be different from the one she had loved. She told him she still loved him and he did not understand. She loved him so but by default without having a say. She loved as one loves a painting and not what it depicts, much less the artist.

him he loved him from despair because despite everything he had in life, he did it and somebody had made, not worse, she had given. First come, a very intelligent, very charming, a good man probably if we had confidence in the verdict but another man anyway. He had suffered for some time locked up, decided to live without it, to live despite it.
But he could not really, so he had come to see.

And now here he finally understood it was wrong, or that it had hurt, it was another way to live it. It saddened him and he winced. His hand on instinctively to his stomach and then he felt the tears flow without having had time to remember, but despite all his desires to implore her, to keep from getting angry and taking it there he did nothing. He forced a smile and said "I understand, it's probably better that way." It faded slowly, looking to separate their image in the mirror instead of probing eyes, she was like him, blue gray, afraid to see a glimmer of hope, desire. The door closed again without kiss that mouth perfect. The door closes and oblivion took the step. The complete oblivion.

I blinked, slowly at first, seemed to expand the space around me, the air is cool, light invade my vision, blinding me as does the sun when it violates a sick room by opening the curtains. I wore a protective hand to my face, I tried to say the least. My arm hung limply stayed by my side, inert, while the right regained sensation in my body. Pain and ants were spreading through me, I winced. Stiff, I took the time to look around. Insoudable a forest, cool, almost cold, inextricable, tangled, the sun does not penetrate the canopy. I felt like I feel humus far because while she was breathing decay, the decadence.

I coughed, without knowing why, the sun, the freshness, the body resumed his duties an instinctive reaction and protest.

Slowly my eyes veered to his right, running on the plain between me and the forest, I on my stump, the plain was reared in the sun and stretching into the distance, rising in gentle hill where digging a path brown earth. There, the road, there was fate, because I felt the top of the hill drew an innocent cross-timbered inn reassuring, humans, like the smoke that seemed barely perceptible outside the thin chimney.
"You're finally back in the living world? "I jumped on the spot, tried to look back in vain, his legs still asleep and I do not obeyed me m'affallai softly on its side in the grass like a puppet which had played a bad and whose turn it was tired.
I could not remember anything, except the dream, the memory of this love that I already burned the entrails for a woman I did not even know the name. which I did not know nothing except the hair, mouth, eyes, a body that I came to feel almost under my fingers. But the worst is that I knew even less about myself. Panic seized me by the throat. My memory was completely erased.

Poems To Attach To Gift Basket

"Quodlibet" for Brass Quintet

To begin the year 2010 a good idea is to make the acquaintance of a series of miniatures for Brass Quintet united under the title "Quodlibet". There are five small rooms without major technical difficulties and character rather playful and slightly naughty and which have been written for two trumpets, a horn, a trombone and a tuba. The partition that contains the five songs can be downloaded free by clicking this link here.
Good luck and happy new year everyone!

Different Colour Ontario License Plate

Science + Media + Culture

Doc Zoos human
sent fanstes . -

Honeywell Lock Box Company

SLEEP WALK


"Sleep Walk" by Santo and Johnny made Farina in 1959. This song brings me to my old dances on Saturday night in 1967, 68, who had the opportunity to meet friends and especially girls. For a young licéen who played guitar in an amateur group, was my only comsol same music as the girls since they were seen where practicable we were playing, dancing with the others ...

Configure Heartgold In Desmume

MERCEDES SOSA (1935-2009)

acrylic on paper, 24 x 33 cm (Edizioni Fara, Rimini, Italy)

The vast Argentine singer Mercedes Sosa and activist, one of the most famous voices of Latin America, has just died at the age of 74 after a long illness. Mercedes Sosa was distinguished by a magnificent voice of singular beauty, and its connection with the work of the poet Violeta Parra and Atahualpa Yupanqui that of.

Remembering "La Negra" I post here one of my cartoons - even dating from the end of last century but published in 2001 - which was comissionnée within a calendar with caricatures of singers in the world.

Gracias, Negra Por Tu canto y tu lucha. Descansa in paz.

Quotes Twilight Short

ON GIRL drowned by Bertold Brecht

Once is not custom, I would publish here one of my translations of poems by writers of German language, in this case, Bertolt Brecht, whose work I particularly appreciate. The poem in question, "Vom Mädchen ertrunkenen" was chosen because it is a poem that never left me indifferent, or by the opposition of his images - which candor and grotesque mingle in a context that is both pathetic and edifying - or by choosing the theme, apparently trivial, but the genius of Brecht was able to create a poem steeped in emotion and restraint of rare lucidity.

HOV Drowned girl
Bertolt Brecht

first
had drowned when they swam down and
of the streams in the larger rivers
track the opal of the sky very strange
As if he had to appease the dead body.

second
seaweed and algae stuck to her a
So that it was much harder to slow.
cooling the fish swam her leg
complained of plants and animals get their last ride.

third
And the sky was dark as night
smoke and keeping the night with the stars the light in the balance. But early
was he bright that it even still they give
for morning and evening.

4th When her pale body
rotted in the water was
Was it (very slowly), that God forgot to gradually
Only her face, hands, and then last of all her hair.
Then she became carrion in rivers with much carrion.


SUR LA FILLE NOYE

first
Lorsqu'elle s'était noye et en descendit nageant
Depuis les grands Ruisseaux jusqu'aux Fleuves
L'du ciel opal semblait
Comme s'il devait très miraculeux réconcilier le cadavre.

second
Seaweed and algae stood her
And so it became increasingly cumbersome.
Coldly fish swam on his leg.
Plants and animals adds further to its final journey.

3.
And the evening sky was dark as the smoke
And he held with the stars at night light suspended.
But soon he was clear, as if it still existed
For morning and evening.

4.
When her pale body rots in the water,
It turns out (very slowly) God forgot gradually
First the face, then hands, and end the hair.
And then it becomes carrion into rivers filled with corpses.


© 2009 for the French translation by André Bessa and ProLitteris Zurich

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CAN NOT TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU


"Can not Take My Eyes Off You" by Bob Crewe and Bob Gaudio and was a huge success in the voice of Frankie Valli in 1967. This song brings me to my old Saturday night dances in those years, and were an opportunity to meet peers and especially girls. It reminds me a lot of things, feelings of a time when I thought le Paradis se trouvait juste au coin de la rue...

En voici les parolles chantés dans la version de Frankie Vallie et The Four Seasons de 1967:

You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you
You feel like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I'm alive
You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you

Pardon the way that I stare
There's nothing else to compare
The sight of you makes me weak
There are no words left to speak
So if you feel like I feel
Please let me know that it's real
You're just to good to be true
Can't take My Eyes Off of You

I love you baby, and if it's quite alright I need you baby
to warm The Lonely Nights
I love you baby, trust in me when I say Oh
pretty baby, do not bring me down I pray Oh pretty baby
, Now That I've Found You
Let me love you baby, let me love you

Preparation H Lose Inches

SHUT UP! WITHOUT YOU I Lay Dying - turnips too?



Yep, no big foot with this new film by Bernard Cointrin it must be confessed. And the key, as a big disappointment from the producer of the picky and very beautiful Between the river and the mother . Quite simply, the film has a good half hour too long (you also find it a lot, is not it?), and the whole central part is completely incoherent. Even if sleep was not nearly the wandering hand of someone looking for my keys. Brief.

Shut up! Lay Dying without you it's a film well flavored minx hyperactive and coach-potatoes lazy, yet from a true story. The scenario has absolutely no interest, ultra-marked and reworked it (lightning strikes, multiple blinds, parades in limousines, and then a girl in the chest generous because, anyway, it takes one) then it necessarily becomes a little more demanding on the staging. Director of photography of St. Alphonsus Luthin is doing very well at times with some beautiful scenes (the beginning, with this wonderful continuation of wheelchairs, or when the office visit Bridge Max torque sumptuous lyricists who hired ). As soon as he sets his frame and he opens his plans a bit, it's wonderful. The work he performs with his assistant operator on the depth of field and highlights is amazing and always well used, along with perfect frames. It's really beautiful. Hat, Phon-phon, you are a great!

Unfortunately, most of the film, lack of resources, going hand-held camera. And there it gets stuck: shots too tight, too fast (save for what), make the film too often completely unreadable and incomprehensible. Apart Max Bridge with a false mustache, unshaven and his mistress cop gay transvestite lady pee, we could not even recognize anyone. What we are witnessing is wearily to the succession of gossip and braces, drizzled with syrupy music signed Jarvis Cointrin (you guessed it, it is the younger son of the director). It's sad. In addition Bercoin (for friends) going on here completely miss an issue: the relationship between the intrigues of high society and the fight against white collar crime of which feed each other in a bath of perfume eau de rose, the fact that crimes "visible" in the spotlight of Columbos of this world, when the real crime is elsewhere, and far more lucrative ...

There were great things to do with all the potential actors and staging. But he had put the camera over the shoulder onto the carpet, and visibly, Cointrin had bought the ticket daily. Quite a miss then.

Male On Male Rape Stories

The Nostalgia Tyrant

Bon ben voila, they believe hold one end of the rope and then lack of time we lose the thread.

I really want to get back. Happen again to get their hands on a story that I can continue and make it live. Who knows maybe with "nostalgia for the tyrant" here are the first sentences:

inspired music: Yann Tiersen - La Valse d'Amelie

The mechanism of music box slowly snaps a small form ivory began to turn on its red silk carpets. The notes sounded crystal and filled the space tent, rivaling the drops of rain pounding on the canvas above. Finger end rested on the head of the dancer to stare, its owner enjoying the sensation of friction when he closed his eyes and let herself be carried away by the crystalline air. The man had reached his forties, his face drawn, a thin dark beard he traveled the jaw. Her lips quivered smiling as if reciting words he was struggling to hold for him.
Slowly he removed his finger from the object and opened his eyes. The tent was richly furnished, finely engraved safe travel, campaign table and even a bed with a bed. A brazier in the center of the room warmed him back. He slammed violently lid of the box, cutting short the lullaby. "Finally! "His arm drove his chair and rose by smoothing the folds of his long black cloak.

noises were heard outside, a man opened the door and stood on his knees before her lord "Lord Katharn, the rain stopped as you predicted! . The cold had engulfed him, which made Katharn wince. But it is with a smile devoid of warmth he asked the soldier to recover, more to prevent it from spreading further more mud on the inside than to offer some speed man soggy.
"Perfect! Made saddle my horse, red dress is a great day. That men are standing still in silence under orders. "

South Park No Streaming

AT THE EDGE OF POND


At the edge of the pond, the quiet
threat of
leaves of a reed
fact shudder
their reflection in the water.

Can You Drink Alcohol On Krealkalyn?

Island Volcano, one of the Aeolian islands, surrounded by a beautiful sea lapis lazuli, that day, slightly crested by a strong sirocco. For

EXIF: Canon EOS 5, 28-75mm L f / 8 1 / 125, Fuji Velvia 100 ISO