How Much Sand Shuffleboard Tables

the night of intelligent thought

All day I spent in the silence that accompanies a note in music and combines with the other, while all around loud, sometimes even festive , was life.
And now the sun there is no more and it seems that it never was.
closed down the dance of lights and sounds in the dark, the room appears to me immobile.
Not to break the unchanged state to which he has surrendered all that is around me, I, I sit motionless, in silence.
My hand, that seems so pale in the dark, through the darkness to take with me in sending seek comfort in the dark night.
the laughter echoes in my tears of death, the desire to ambirla oscillates around me.

Troubleshoot Jet Ski Solenoid

Dear Andrej,
I write, making use of the theory for which Kundera's characters have independent thoughts and opinions by the author, to bring a question. It
a matter on which I found myself thinking, and about which I can not be certain of the accuracy or completeness of my deduction.
Did you ever hear a song, watch a movie, read a book and find a meaning but can be a good reason to doubt that is what the author wanted to communicate?
I cite as an example a frivolous song in Latin America which claims that life is a carnival :
after the first listen it's easy to think that the singer wants to tell us that in life you think of fun, but to think well, especially after etymological analysis, the meaning may be much more profound: life is prey to a reversal of roles (carnival), so we live a life on earth in which those who are in the top of the scale of social values \u200b\u200bshould instead be in the lower echelons and vice versa.
At this point I may ask, in that case as in others, if such a meaning that is concealed in the original idea was the author or not.
I think so, although it may happen that the author himself does not know. That is not something that we see too many where there, but something that has escaped him. If so would
ch'esiste a universal intelligent thought that man has unconsciously and it shares with all others but not in the know, that it is a latent thought.
happen then that such a thought emerges and someone will grab him but did not pick it up at the bottom, creating, through this idea while remaining himself ignorant of the meaning (or one of the meanings) that it bears within itself.
two found us in a very special bond I would like to know your opinion about it. With love

author.

Dear Author, but as
pops into your mind like a fairy tale? This
then: imagine that there is a kind of intelligent thought that lingers in us without our knowledge, an absolute value from which we sometimes draw.
If there is something above man is not certainly his thought.
It 's normal to find a different concept from what an author wanted to communicate with his work: it simply means that we personified in it and so do we take our own subjective view.
According to this vision we have our arguments and draw personal conclusions, and these will obviously be different from the original.
But you also knew the Latins: Quot homines, tot sententiae .
invites you to not lose more than your time on pointless philosophical discussions that do not lead to considerations other than channeled into fanciful and outlandish. Rather
write something about me, gives life to my thinking, let me say anything yet I never said, let me reveal the secrets that still had not asked and that I live and transmit the emotions that everyone wants to try at least once on your skin.
Resign in short, to become a writer. With devotion

your character.

Manual Ati Radeon R96

Mother's Day evening of poetry

One of the things that I care to write on this blog post is only my accomplishments, but today I will make an exception by publishing, in conjunction of their party, a poem by Pasolini on mothers:

Ballad of mothers

I wonder what mothers have had.

If you saw the work hours

in a world unknown to them,

taken on a tour ever made

of experience so different from them,

that would look in your eyes?

If they were there, as you type

your piece, conformist and baroque

or passed to editors broken

to any compromise, they would understand who you are?

Mothers cowards in the face with the fear

old, what an evil

deforms the lineaments in a whiteness

them blurred, move them away from the heart,

close them in the old moral rejection.

Mothers vile, poor, worried

that the children know the cowardice

to demand a place, to be practical,

not to offend sensitive souls,

to defend against all pity.

poor mothers who have learned

humbled by the girls of us,

one, meaning naked,

with souls in which the world is damned

not give sorrow or joy.

poor mothers, who have not had

for you never a word of love,

if not a love sordidly dumb

of the beast, and it grew v'hanno,

powerless to recall the real heart.

Mothers servile, accustomed for centuries

to bow his head without love,

to submit to their fetuses

the old, shameful secret

content of the remains of the feast.

Mothers of slaves, who have taught

as the servant can be happy

hating those who, like him, tied

as may be cheating on you, blessed

and secure, making what is not said.

Mothers fierce, intent on defending

the little, middle-class, possess,

normality and salary,

almost angrily to avenge those who

or is close to an absurd siege.

fierce Mothers, who have said

Survive! Think of you!

Never try piety or respect

for anyone, hatched in the chest

your integrity of vultures!

Here, cowardly, mediocre, servants,

fierce, your poor mother!

Having no shame in knowing how to

- in your hatred - even proud,

if this is not a vale of tears.

is how this world belongs to you:

made brothers in opposing passions,

or enemy homelands, the refusal deep

to be different: to respond

the savage pain of being men.

Sports Motorcycle Golf Bag Carrier -harley

E 'lovely stroll at dusk along the river bed with dead air that slowly sailing in black.
Street Mission pleasant sound of the dry land that is crushed under my feet.
the cool evening air I cradle the crunch of stones underfoot.
And although the moon darkens to shame, leaving me in the dark, for me it's like walking a day.
will be the harmony of nature or perhaps it's the wound that burns inside like a fire and flame as it enlightens the path.
I lie down to rest shelter from cool only with a blanket of darkness.

river or river, you must have cried for what looks so. The tears shed for thee
emptied, but
continue to flow like lava burning in me, in my mind as
copious tears.
Rock me with your essence so dry that I can sleep forgetting all sad thoughts.