Tuesday, November 05, 2013

Pictures of Lily Old pictures from the doorway of the old tavern, a role that involves a lit cigarette to burn about the table where I sit. I try to wash my hands with my gloves. Trying. Trying. You remain standing as the son Llorona of a tide, watching the scene walking around the table. You, your useless, crying in fear to not apologize. Vain. In vain. Sorry filming the table with your camera, filming in chains. Oh mama, you're great. Now take some pictures .- And I, dangerous and burned me with my leather gloves timid, without letting the fire burn me with the camera of my 12 year old son over, without realizing the danger, according to his game, because the idea was good. Us. Now. Water. Pictures of Lily. Beds Camas. Solitary or fluffy. The Only eternal rest. The only fear emboldened. Households in which one can make your whole life without much to lose but a little sleepy sleep. I love the beds. From the deepest to the hardest, mistaking my time between the sheets between my dream rarefied. Between my eternal rest. Hurry The rush is not simply a fight against time, as is widely acknowledged, but a brief time wear, and vital energy. Just try to cycle all that must happen, happen before, and more worthy of a quality that if it happens quietly concerned. And most strangely, that speed goes on inside our nervous system, and not on such a stage above. I say this because using such a waste of energy for such cycles, your body either in a fast or in a calm, almost always get the same results, just that the wear is higher. However, I can not then avoid running more than they naturally would without suffering the fatigue that causes me to rush ...


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