And here we are.
A couple of days ago I read a piece wheel, a few lines, written about one quarter of A4 at the end of 2005. In the queue there was my signature. In the body, the difficulty of living with these rules.
the tight delivery of works and products, performance, expectations fulfilled, Now as then, seem to play the same notes for all those around me.
I'm sure I feel bad when I follow these rules, but you can not see the horizon, the best tracks to get by. One type
French, just released from prison for murder of love, writes and sings of the refusal to be a winner or loser ... Basically this is what I really do not go down.
The inability to come up with something new in this world, is given responsibility for the tragic loss ... or win ... always, in every little action.
to breathe easy and clean, I have taken many, in recent years. Still, not enough to dispel the indifference. But it must really
sound so extreme the need to take a road all to ourselves?
No, really, put it here means to talk to you ... you without a face, you flow, you who have time to kill some time on these lines, not fade away, without the need to go anywhere else, in minutes, hours.
So you leave, never to return, perhaps. I miss him, but rightly so. The
write every day a new thought. Without even an action. Only colors, even beautiful, or terrible, and told her wooden structures. I lose no time in detail. Channels carried on the diagonal flow from who knows where, who knows what kind of flow. The
nothing wrong with you when you least expect it.
It is so wonderful if you can just invite to the banquet.
's so powerful in the sweep patterns and pitfalls of this surface Certosa.
ugly beast, nostalgia for something you never really lived.
(Si rien ne bouge, le ciel rouge DEVIENT)
