Rifle Scope Range Finder 6-24

The question I ask you, Eleanor: Where I go now? I pitched money, I stole a lot of money actually, and then I broke my partner's mouth. I did all that to go to Bora Bora and get used to suck. But between me and Bora-Bora stand whores of troublemakers, that's why I rang you and compels me to, I need to cross roads. I need a set of ideas and proposals which I would like patience mutt face of the latch and a few floors. We must postpone my ideal pain to know the uniform and the rigor of indictments. How do we flee?
I thought to travel light, and sleep in burrows like to cross borders on foot. I thought of unlikely corners where one imagines the life I thought a word Narbonne, Narbonne or Estonia, who would find me there? Who for one reason quelquonque, would go to Narbonne with ideas, I mean a coherent thought? Eleanor, it is Estonia's stash them? There are planes to the islands in Estonia? Tell me, if I draw at Narbonne in Estonia and direction Bora Bora, would I not already paid a certain debt to society?

You also broke the jaws of my patient, "notes Eleanor. You're in a hurry, but I do not understand why. I have trouble you imagine improvising anything.

True, Eric sighs. Everything was so good. Bora Bora, the pipe, the money to get there, and justice run, it was really soothing. And then leaving, I told myself, but you know how it is, we always want to do more, in short, I told myself, better than me sucking in Bora Bora, I could get sucked in by Sophie Bora-Bora. I'm here for. Sophie. I took him.

But no, Eric. Sophie is betrothed. With a guy picked it up a bit. But fiancee. Eric. You'll smash your face to the world?

is the problem. Eleanor is the whole problem.

Lump On Neck But No Pa

Where the author bored very hard coming back from Memphis

It is obviously no question of interfering with joy. First, because you do mixes with nothing, then because the joy is boring when shared. You know, nothing beats the bitter sneer. Nevertheless, it is difficult to find capacity. Criticize? But there is nothing to criticize non-reason to rejoice is precisely this lack essential: there is nothing to say. Live and screaming prophet End thinks nothing of Obama. Although
. Develop for once. I mean, I'd be really disappointed if you thought I'm the kind of guy pretty superficial. So I explain (in three time, because I was in school).

1) Why does not rejoice?
Because others do. Because a black or white, it's nothing. It means nothing. Because it provides the material to quintals of unnecessary noise (you can imagine, seriously, how long it will eat into analysis, backstage, retrospectives, stories secret?) Because there is nothing new except what exactly is nothing? (Did you see how I overlap my analysis?)

2) Why is everything so boring?
Because everything is written. You do not rejoice? You are part of moaners. You rejoice? You are part of the naive. Obama will disappoint ? We are bored already read these editorials that demonstrate that long since disappointment is that it is precisely equal to the other, which will - inevitably - his biggest win . And if he is murdered? We take for thirty years. Thirty years of commemorations and compulsory figures, thirty years of anniversaries. To explain to his children who he was. Street names and schools. Movies. Theories. Seriously, you know that the most annoying myth Kennedy? So.

3) But what the hell?
Do not think.

I would nevertheless saddened that you think I am part of a kind casual posture throughout the course, so I do not know, seem vaguely intriguing with girls breasts under their opulent wool sweater and thus be able to kiss the way home from Memphis. Distressed

I would be.
Well, not later than two weeks ago, I'm excited for the length of the PSG win at the Velodrome. Le Guen who plays offensive is something other than a black president. The 4-3-3 can have panache.

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Where the author, exhausted, finally admits that he has a small dick

I'll lacked passion, those who presumably do travel. But I have never taken hold of what I imagined as the character, this mix of intolerance and indifference to others applied to itself, and I will laugh at my own jokes, because it is the drama, all built on the need not to love, I'll be approved, celebrated in all things. It is not easy to go against everything. Do not love when you have another disease is relative, you are left in dirty water goëmonées, and frankly much cooler. It must be tidy identity somewhere, give it to loving hands or bury it in the folds of his fat. The other, therefore, continues to support his shots too, are you deaf to the dignity, empathy, waiting for the attention expected beyond the home games. The identity known assayed his shots, she watches and waits for the unsteady forces are balanced. The destructive impulse is not so much an enemy that proclaimed vigilante, often too mannered and contemplative, but ultimately loyal - and patient. Everything else is organized around the gaps to be filled, and for others living. I'm doing surprisingly well, I insist, to my great surprise. I mean, I have some cash homey, the fat bitch Thune and in theaters. It's called civilization. So that the cage becomes big and cover the empty fields of bliss. So paths outside shrink. So the passion is hiding under the mud. So that travel seem futile. Civilization and saves people. Not all, but I guess he must choose sides, Kamarad.

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And you can bend

I have a deep affection for myself, yes. Thus, reading the friend Nikita, I remember those few months when I was racing the train you. I arranged for you ahead a few meters to the exit, hoping that you so laboriously see me and you call me. It was a way to let you choose. Let you choose, always, when Pinochet imitated the phone, so you can think of least pretend to believe, that everything would remain much lighter than your daily wanderings would dull my what? Come together: my hopes. But I never had that strength of character, and I waited, letters, visits, emails, calls. I waited in wishing you all the unhappiness of the world, since we all liked the girls lost. And it is true that it was not love, because you do not wish misfortune girls unfortunate that claims to love. That, among other things, what makes me an individual in the mass, which does not worth more than another. That is why I have a deep affection for me. Because he should not expect, and that I did.

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Elude Templars

Okay, let's brother Arwen. The brother of a heroine. Which crystallizes densities. Who carries the world in its wake. Who lived a thousand lives of heroines. Which was sufficient to define what life was like, I mean: scattered and strewn.
His brother grew up in Rennes, Leffe and between the AG. Sometimes he raises an eyebrow and sees you with the compassion of mosquito buzzing in your ear. He joined the National Front in 1996. It was something. We were students. I mean that our discussions, so inflamed that we liked to believe, was that downward spiral. As distant as we thought to be, we eventually agree on, more than most, all. Our disagreements are mere nuances, semantics applied to the descents of hops. We were students, and that was enough to die together. Agree on, finally, everything. So he agrees to the FN. And it's really something. For the man who faces no longer with us. No longer a student. Is evil.
How does he race? forgiveness, ethnicity? Nothing. We observed the ear, the mosquito. Death penalty, the gas chambers? His gaze flowing down her fingers. Separates us, Arwen. Pepito dies he went ratonnade. Sullen nights of violence, to beat the train. Takes up the ranks.
No longer exists. Disappeared from among us. Party where there will not return as wrecks of men, puffy easy answers offered by the hatred of all things.

Arwen sees nothing that makes his life since the death of Pepito. It is not a man who loves women expect. This is the man who adjusts its orbit in severity, the bite to their plane of existence, the tension of their jaw that makes her the necessity indivisible. It's that passion, but this is why we suffer and hope to have lived. Pepito died in passion. In this period not tolerate anything except the other and that makes us vermin. In fact, Arwen's love feels empty. Arteries purple and panting corollary. That suicide permanent live Arwen thinks that, in his tragedy of heroin decommissioned in Ratag hope. Nothing in this that makes all of Connes. And that extends, smokes Bensons on wet stairs, waiting for the impossible. So
Arwen, tired of living like an absence, as the absence does not suffer the constant ratio to the other, the metering of water and no plans were, Arwen is said that it is time to revive and go the world as we race. Arwen decides to relive the heroic age itself.

The look of his brother continues to flow down her fingers. The brother of Arwen
contemplates what she herself attributes to nil. This
nothing there, which is his pride fool widow stellar. A sentence mineral. So quickly showered.

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Video - Night of Poetry



"At Montreal, March 27, 1970 at Gesu theater, thousands of Quebecers celebrate poetry in a grand and enthusiastic gathering. The event was a milestone in the history of Quebec. He gathered in the largest celebration of the word that occurred in Quebec, the singers of the national language. "
dixit Wikipedia

Ectopic Pregnancy And Whereshoulder Pain

Photo - Video Launch


Some pictures taken at the launch of Poetry No. Takeout, 5
by the excellent Mary Charlotte Aubin.









thank you again to all who were present, and soon.

Bad Backs, Hard Stomachs And Peeing Alot?

TP5 - Robbert Fortin

Bulma Vegeta Fanfiction

Audio - JSL

excellent text by Jean-Sébastien Larouche The Underdog JSL The man who gave one of the top three best performances in the evenings Password trd. mrk. co. ltd. two years of existence (s)

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takeout takeout poetry launch

Excerpts chosen norm in that it is custom, the takeout No poetry, 5 launched a few weeks ago. The takeout poetry, as we remember, a group of texts read or unpublished evenings Password which we will celebrate the second anniversary in September this year.


hello Bobb

BACK COVER:
You put the animal world head , bloody pathways by which they pass logic at bay .
How?! Do you not see? To show like. Exercises.
THIS is an unstoppable parade-ie, random. Out, the masks for the occasion, which, from a brothel junk-cluttered her eyes which, for most, which still fell asleep on the rubble of the wind ... Poetry leans to the mirrors, but you do not believe; drowned in his mirrors and there is no resurrection; they are alone, and with it, we are alone, and with it, there more parades; offered full nudity, which defaces. What does it take to discharge the lyrics?
"For the facts! "
They come, they come.
-short, blablablablablablab ( " Bis) Do you understand now, all these bloody heads have d'avoir-day, one more day , unable to defeat the time?





MAKES THE HEART OF DUTIES ON THE SIDEWALK
Robbert Fortin, Rue Saint-Jean, Quebec

See passers breath of night like stuffed peacocks
young brains stuffed
freedom hurts so drunk you
never to see her shivering in your teeth

strangely the same routine mechanical
Gossage spine of many small life Pistons for all you have nothing
products ephemeral
to cut short the cowardice
to show your true face
hell it will always be other

you feel doomed to miscellaneous
bowls with pride at the tables look
you eat the cuttings of your nonsense

it gets worse for those who are already hooked
accessories
skin in the core operating
made stains on the sidewalk
it gives a little cry effoiré between the cracks
nobody reacts because there are centuries
that you do not know what it looks like a cry of
man defeated by on inside

and if I tell you stop-light red
you to disguise yourself as you refuse Bukowski
disenchantment
ostrich bad night
you pierce your dream through the carbon layer
or almost cleared your body will become the ghost
nibbling his suspenders




TEST ARTIST
Robbert Fortin, my first recital, The Hobbit Cafe, Quebec

Whenever a fire overnight on approximate skin left
Respere take scripture the form of a passion without further
devotion to behave like a
fiber which would push the audacity to strengthen our obsession
cause

under the shock of our effronteries
our wanderings driving
we let each phrase
mention our fighting spirit to overcome our revolutions

without knowing that he had bitten into it or breathe it
that was triggered us to other sites
light show each relaunched a
support a lever pointing travel

our cries like a sling
had been awake
the intimate presence of a resonance fragility
rustling prints with a language where
stand between constancy and pitfalls
elevation

we measured in the poem rose nearly unfathomable
what turns the sound of breath being fortified
did we know the hope now he had
learn to conquer fear and drudgery live

we were the new poets we said
cheeky knowing that shadow and brush
our hearts should also face the tub water
we would doubt our courage




THE ANGEL OF BLUR DESIRE
Robbert Fortin, before the paintings of Francis Bacon, Tate Museum, London


You do not need body
to bar the way to thunderstorms

you've already set
transforming the smallest flaws in
mirrors
pain as if a strange beauty to which a sickly
cry
stands up to the world at the same time declared itself powerless to
spit out his empty

why did you get in this house
the corners broken
flayed from insomnia and dementia
your burning suns of madness before protraits

it is true that no response should
to your heartbeat
offal
all voices that have made you darkness
at least you can wash lightning
made you nailed hand to anger

you will become the angel of desire
blur on a foundation of neurosis





LOVE-SHEET 2
-MAYOR PAOLA GRIMALDI


[...] I shake And you
shrinks
You're not a rabbit
And the snake that I'm
Wrapped in your body red eye causes you to
background water.


'


As the horizon moving
On the body of a woman is peeling oranges

looks at herself in the eyes
It rained gold on
our love perverse.


'


I'm leaving. I'm traveling

Visit the rest of life without you

Where Every second you do not exist.
Believe me, it will be long.


'


Desire: Te
beheaded
And cuddle me in your arms.
Sometimes I also loved that bad


[...]








WITH MY ARMS
VIRGINIA BEAUREGARD


I will not open the door
you personally for the buck of blind love
reread the sidewalks
daylight and blue sky kissing lightning
I will break my phones pink hammer

in the thunder the sound of memories

I dreamed that bombs exploded

lick evidence as the cutting edge of a knife


what remains of our heroic
ulterior motives attached to the front line

me back safe and sound with my arms




BELLE
VIRGINIA BEAUREGARD

I want to sleep and wake up tomorrow as a beautiful
first day
land between the teeth
skin in the sun the wind

weighing on the fingers dried
future starched
wax my shoes
Europe was up early that day in the sun
Sabbath songs by a core of women
a crinoline grazes shoes without soles to smiles
kind
skinned feet that will not hurt







LEGION
RENE THE FLOWER

Always uniformly immersed in vines on vines of phagocytes
Still wasting organic separation Always progress
reduced to begging a background of reduced air
Always
Always knowingly underfed
Always scalped before reaching the valley running down the dune
Always torrire without boots and without feet

And Never Never respite
of Valhalla at the end of death and dying every day
Never rest between the hammer blows
Never ever break the tightness of the aorta That never
acid mixed with blood
That beat the skull beneath the cries
Hard white balloon that compete for the whores and the players laugh at fat













(ED) FINISH 2008
SEBASTIAN BOULANGER-GAGNON

When architecture no longer a profile of a ram in a brick wall still standing, the eagles have landed their big wings on the ground and planted their beaks in the ash. The time breathing through the throat on the shoulders two kids who lost their mothers. A memory hovered over the disaster and gave up the ghost in a fever.

DEDICATION
RODNEY CHRISTMAS trd. mrk. co.

see towers strings are divided bones
your mirrors divert the time I'm

circles their surface






MEN APOCRYPHAL
RODNEY CHRISTMAS trd. mrk. co.

anthology gestures dying destitute state of the tower reed twisted liquid to the space the dead multiply the body where I live where I do not live (these masks are beginning to look like us)
soon need a new balance of mirrors


notch net

a snag in the rain too broad

coda

me the weed countries where the feet do not hold men in straw
fetishes
consequences shells inexplosive

TWILIGHT OF IDOLS

RENE LAFLEUR

cherished idols, in which it was hoped so much, why were so many broken links, on whose behalf it was stale and burnt futures yet tender, become now in this silence, in this light, what we were always said they were: gypsum, forms, ideas around which rally one day before dispersing, as silent spectators after a defeat.

BUILT
RENE LAFLEUR

soon
the world
The word
Sinks
Stepping
Lowest
effort

Disappointed Not To join

Lesser
Relay

New Allies
Always
Puffs
As
As you pull
Milk
Candid warriors
obediently lying
Through patience gun shop
At infinite spirit

Currency
The foot gets stuck










(UNTITLED)
François Gourd

I participate in a hurry to an edition of words spewed into the pot of old.
I am already an old but still alive.
I hide in a bath of hens for eggs which are asleep.
I hide face like a bandit or a Muslim woman.
I hide the face like a bandit or a Muslim woman.
I hide because I've been afraid of life.
I hide behind a smile moron.
I hide because I do not want to be aware of. I
reaches out to the corner in a street on petteux Mont-Royal.
I hide because I have nothing to say except the silent suffering of not lucky.
I hide to find inner peace.
Because I do not feel good on this earth filled with people who can no longer live.
I'd like to change this humanity, but I do not know how. So I die a little each day.
I am a descendant, a hole in a condom.
A mishap, an unwanted embryo.
I'm alone, I do not know anyone except an agent who makes me sickly morality.
I'm alone and I became invisible to good people.
I'm a star and I shine sick in my coat. I meditate every day on the corner of boulevard of broken dreams.
I'm dirty and I stink. I am a poor devil disguised as a monk. I am nothing.
I await the end of my life with the patience of a craftsman.
I'm knitting bits of road and the lace of chance.
I'm patient to the hospital for insane. I
seeker at the corner of your street.
I could change the world because I am god, but nobody sees me.
I am the misery of poor people.
If you want to live, give me your hand I'll give you the missing pieces in your life.
I give you one last chance.
mouse so that I you can recognize me.
I bear the weight of your sins on the C minor symphony lost.
You're all dead in the infernal race this modern life.
Come see me at the cemetery at dusk. Hi

The Phantom of the Opera









(UNTITLED)
ARTEMIDE

and Door Still
border posts and more and nowhere to dump
the void in my life
Strolling along the sidewalks
In the solitude of the world

I left the mainland capitals To return to monopolies
capital
And now I come back I'm afraid

Can anything that moves especially when nothing moves

Fear my dreams
And bore me to continue to exist, wedged between the life and death

Fear of being stuck like a scrambled egg
And not to be, nor feel my skin that covers

Fear no longer feel pain, to sit on the floor
And having more nothing to cause the sky to join.








(UNTITLED)
RAPHAEL GASPARD

decor extends straight lines and wasteland

River mouth to your
disorder of everyday

inoukchouk sugar for your coffee


your panties in my dirty sheets

these small victories that are kept when alone with
tomorrow





Architextur
RAPHAEL GASPARD

when you overtake the walls peeled winter
it straight through
without looking anything but the moment

horizon decor

you the silence of the empty spaces around the forehead
noise of others who stuck with
the texture of the voice prints in light
pieces altitudes
fists to shelter in the morning
and music to lie

the promise of wind that unfolds in the dance







EROTIC DRAMA IN B FLAT MAJOR
RAPHAEL GASPARD

Act One
Intermission
First Violin:
As several studies have contradicted the recent success, * on its claim to write The literary editor reports on a burgeoning literature in full.

Choir, accompanied by the orchestra:
What remains fuss about us ...
The rest is illusion.

Final Act
Public Release.
Columnist:
His hand between my wet lips the tip of his slides in my mouth.
Ah.
Already in her sex.
Explodes.
again.
End.

Notes: * Latest
success the last, ultimate; term used by the journalistic reporter who seeks to introduce the emergency. Expression responsible for folding the game.

The author would like to quote from the report, detailed at a conference on the state general of the main theme of the cultural weekly Montreal area, as part of the Symposium on Arts and Entertainment:
"The pamphlet.
Space is a divisive element, it is advertising. "











perhaps a few more excerpts soon follow soon ...

Portable Woodcarvers Bench

5 n, 5 / / party Archipelliers / / Saturday, August 23

POSTER DISPLAYED ABOVE THEN DJ CAPITA
that this is DJ EXTREM (JOEL-LOVED)
AS INDICATED BELOW

launch of the poetry collective work takeout n'5 / / party Archipelliers

menu:
Pierre-Alain Faucon (Chinatown)
readings / / microuvert
Joel-Aimé, dj extreme

appetizers:
poésiepoésie and dansedanse

Saturday, August 23 from 20 hours of Écores
LOFT 5810 (Metro Rosemont)
reservations :514-863-3383

lesArchipelliers / / home event

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Study of poplars Before 1964

The air conditioning has jumped, as saying that the night will be long. I wish it freezes as it can remedy the situation, forcing the epidermis and refute the atoms, but what about against wetness? Shit.
I am told a lot of things in the family, I feel very close Weir and adopt the resignation concave, but still, it's not as if everything was so surprising. Yes. Very unhappy, I do not consent to look into it when I let go of any enormity in casually and expect a reaction, a surprise and indignation. I do not have a life so full, it can be summarized in a few lines, and sometimes I play again, whispering what went wrong and I vaguely distinguishes what is genetic and what is my singular lack of empathy and I tell you you did well and you forget you have chosen to bury me well, figure that you guys happy for me let heat by night to feel sorry one bit. Just now a few minutes to replay the key moments of my visit, to assess changes and measure their insignificance. For more than a shadow in yours, I tried to do without you. For more than your curls, your secrets, your silence, your no foul, I looked for your stupidity and your posture, and the infinite disgust, which revolves in your smell in your words that are nothing but a little research itself, and I'm stiff and I foolishly sneers at what you're biggest thing.

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Let me explain what I do: it was enough to click a button to feed an abandoned animal for a year, you would? Just click. No credit card. No e-mail to provide. You click, and I am committed to nourish the tearful little beast. So?
You are 2.3% (annual average) to do so. My business was profitable at 1.7%. But if
enough to click a button to do that I suck 8 months a year in Bora Bora, you would? That is the problem.

My name is Eric. I did not rush the tearful little creatures to make me suck in Bora Bora. The project was known. 870 000 EUR blocked on accounts too obvious. It's like that, I did not really hidden. I am hard for months to find a coherent business model, I tacked between banks and government support, I reassured investors suddenly pastries and powerpoints unstructured, but when assholes everyone I simply took the money. My partner is called Alex, he does not understand. He does not understand evil nor flippant. I told him I miss Alex, I want to spin in Bora Bora. Alex says: I do not understand. He watches me. Alex watching me for over two minutes. He seeks a solution, two minutes for a lifetime of reflection, before dropping: you have just been careless, money is always there. You have been negligent, Eric.
I miss Alex, I'm going. I leave with money.
You can not. He says you can not with certainty to contain the reality in three words.
When I go near him, Alex cling arm. That is the problem.

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Enigma vegetable (3)

Who knew?

- in response Read -

Answer:

This is a flower of leek! Amazing, no?

the

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Enigma vegetable (2)

mystery of nature ...

- index 2 in reading more -

Clue # 2

Wait an hour, but not that of tea!

the

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Enigma vegetable (1)

What flower is this?

- Index No. 1 in read more -

Clue # 1

Go Blue!

the

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the

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conjunction or coordination?

In astronomy, a conjunction of two celestial bodies,
- above the Moon and Venus -
means that these objects, seen from a third
( usually the Earth)
appear very close to each other in the sky.

It is true that in general when you talk of conjunction
objects are much closer
... but what do you do? Like well this picture.
is the vision I have when I get up early
and I look out the window of the room ... and I get up
often right!

If it was winter I'd think this picture this:

Tomorrow, at dawn ...

Tomorrow, at dawn, at a time when the countryside whitens ,
I will leave. You see, I know you expect.
I'll go through the forest, go through the mountains.
I can not stay away from you any longer.

I walk with eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing outside, without hearing any noise,
Only, unknown, back bent, hands crossed,
Sad, and the day for me will be like night.

I will not look at the golden evening falls,
Neither distant sails going down towards Harfleur, And
when I arrive, I'll put on your grave
A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom.

Victor Hugo - The contemplations -

the

© Copyright or wrong

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Visual memory

Morphology memory

the

© Copyreyes

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Well, I thought I was that interested you. Whether you're manners, scholarly approaches to planning and all the stuff, so I do not think too much. In your story.

The girl sniffs, with an air quite annoyed.

No, it's your father.

Yes. Sounds interesting really?

What is my job.

Well, he was born around 1964.

Sniff.

No but I know.

You know what?

Looking stiff. Most

what. Birth, significant dates, all that.

And you want ...?

Your eyes on him.

That's me you want.

You can just tell me about him?

I can. It is a superior spirit who sees himself as a superior mind. Very annoying. The kind of guy who spends his life making jokes about Jews to shock malcontents.

It is not anti-Semitic?

No. You think?

No. But it confirms is good.

This is not necessarily good. Fathers are generally antisemitic good fathers, a little tight, but eager to pass the torch. It creates bonds of necessity.

It was not a good father?

No, but you should approach a little less cliche.

I will decide the approach.

course, you will see the facts in an impartial way and the truth will illuminate for your readers.

You do not trust me?

You have decided to rehabilitate it.

If necessary, yes.

No, especially if it is not necessary. I could describe it as the biggest ever frass generated, it would only strengthen you.

consolidate Me?

You go to a wonderful man. Extra. Ordinary. Outside. Our miserable daily.

is your opinion. What it was not a good father?

I did not say you fascinated. I'm not implying that you were idiot. But we do not sell the life of a man like the others. You will need the material.

Poor father, then?

Poor father, absolutely. Detestable.

What?

In his immoderate love for My Funny Valentine, first. Impose these long minutes of boredom to his kids, it's already dismal. My sister had left the song running in a loop when she opened her veins. Oh like, matter.

I know your sister.

But you did not know for Valentine. Me either. I learned recently. You'd better not mention it, in fact. The superior mind could blame.

This is not my problem.

If it is. Guilt, it only lasts so long. Then it will pass to the offensive against you. Intimidation, threats, trials. I know that you are not refractory to the scandal, at least you will encourage others to do so. But you reduce to ashes. My sister will come on trays, and you swear in your eyes that this story is false. Guaranteed success, but credibility undermined. You end up with bragging about hypothetical media cancers old glories, and you hate it your life.

It has so much influence on your sister?

No, but like all little girls who miss their suicide, she thinks it's a moment that belongs to her. You have already tried to take a bone to a dog?

And you?

Karl sighs.

Enormously. He loves to travel, he likes through the extensive African and Indonesian groves, swoon and laugh in Florentine Jews in Spain. He imagines the sulfur burning its presence worldwide. He thinks the discovery and walks, lunches where galactic blows to the gods "mi casa es tu casa." I'm worried and I get to eat Chinese. You can do something.

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"Yesterday I met a hit man."

the

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seat memory (1)

Interior Details

the

© Copyright my apple

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verse alone ...

"Feelings of loneliness, since my childhood.
Despite the family - and in the midst of comrades, especially -
feeling lonely destiny forever.
However , lively taste of life and pleasure. "

Charles Baudelaire -" My heart laid bare

the

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Farandole solitudes: the link
Missing!

"If I did not solitude to keep me company,
I felt very lonely."

Malvina



previous loneliness - loneliness following

Malvina's blog just disappear from the blogosphere. With his permission I put above line expression of solitude ...
the

Free Mountains Biffy Piano Music

Allegory of the Cave

Chapter 3: the homecoming

long time ... these words resonate

I knew that text for years.
I have a copy that I just found in the attic.
A handwritten copy. The handwriting of my mother. This text
had seduced. How could it be otherwise?
The manuscript version in my possession
is a bit different from the one I posted.

I learned only recently that it was a fake.

Whatever! This does not detract from its beauty and its depth.

To find him and talk to you I made a simple web searches that led me to this article. The rest, after all, is that "copy-paste" and layout

For Illuster I used two pictures from the book "Barefoot on Holy Land" published in 2001 Denoël in Fine Books Collection edited by T.-C. McLuhan, Edward C. Photographs Curtis.

Photo of the "Great Indian Chief of the Sea" which illustrates this post just in Traces . She is thanked.


I have no particular affinity with Native American culture. However, the rediscovery of this text I have to go in others. I will deliver you probably are excerpts one day soon. Wisdom worth sharing.

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Photo © Traces

How Do You Unlock Nortel

Allegory of the Cave

Chapter 2: Reality

From the perception of shadows

The perception we have of things is always subjective.
is one of the lessons of the allegory of the cave Plato.

Alas, you'll see sorry, but the text I've delivered and who is considered one of the finest statements in favor of ecology is a fake.
Chief Seattle is one of the first "manufactured prophets" of the media age. But this trick does not withdraw, of course, neither the historical stature of Seattle, who was a great leader, neither the ideas of environmentalists.

Seattle (See-ahth named), decided in effect in 1854, and in his own language, a famous oration at Issac Steven, Commissioner of Indian Affairs came to propose to the first inhabitants of North-West an "arrangement territorial ". We do know today that the content through a transcript, published thirty-three years later in the Seattle Sunday Star October 29, 1887 under the signature of Dr. Henry Smith. She has only a few phrases in common with the too eloquent profession of faith that has been around the world. This seems to have been drafted in 1971 by writer Ted Perry.
It runs three versions of this speech. I have delivered that which seems to be more "official".

Chief Seattle died at eighty years, one year after the city took its name makes defense to all Indians to live there.

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Photo Copyright © Edward C. Curtis

Sadlier Oxford Vocab Answers

Ground Control

past two years, Fifteen tables the same comment under each post to Akhilene23, a daughter of a curiosity relative who has never surprised this constancy. No fewer than 165 articles, punctuated the "Oh" from Fifteen. 165 Ah good. And no reaction. Does she feel if I had treated 165 times a bitch? 165 times threatened with death? Akhilene23 is a colleague of Fifteen, a tiny hand of the marketing department that does not always think to lock their PC. Anne Versoony a taste for j-pop and the videos of kittens, a quiet life, divorced parents and engagement in sight, akin Modem (traditionally right). Fifteen could say "it's me who says, every time" or say Oh, in a tone that leaves no doubt. It probably does not surprise mark, preferring to ignore what may be a - what, in fact - an idiot? A lover too reserved? Fifteen would be unable to explain anyway. Not that his approach will seem so consistent that it would happen both cause and effect, but Fifteen carries the free acts, which seemed the only reason to exist. It is likely that it interprets this as a signal, a beacon showing his presence would conclude that she is lonely. He finds in these pages a trivial element of comfort, serenity. The imagining as a kid frightened, she would actually no reason to get excited nor annoyed his litany of oppressive. And the emergence of the commentator in its reality could only lead to indifference, or a vague sense of unease. Anne Versoony does not respond to the interest in her. Does she feel so filled from the outside? At this point nothing should be filled disrupt his path. 165 comments always the same. Other commentators s'agacent or playing in the stubbornness of this dubiously. And Anne Versoony (Belgian?) Is so quiet, it is moved in any of this animosity. It is profoundly abnormal. Have you visited Baghdad under the bombs, Anne? Your parents beat you, they in turn, bundled up in their couple wobbly? Have you lived as an evil power, a guy who has made you a target manifest does evoke for nothing? And if I appear before you, in a space that will exist only through mutual recognition, will you see the potential danger or worry will you keep this silence skimpy? It is time to put some order, breath Fifteen. Some order in his life.

I Am Male And I Have Uti

Allegory of the Cave

Chapter 1: Shadows

The great Indian chief Seattle

Seattle is a great Indian leader and Suquamish tribes Dumawish best known for his speech in 1854 during negotiations with the U.S. Government United, in which he expressed his refusal to sell Indian lands.
Seattle was born in 1786 on a small island south of Brainbridge Island, during the terrible epidemic, the legacy of white settlers, who annihilated the indigenous population.
When he was between twenty and twenty-five years, Seattle was named head of six tribes, a title he held until his death in 1866.
Seattle is the spokesperson for the negotiations (begun in 1854) and the signatory with other Indian leaders, the peace treaty of Point Elliott - Mukilteo (1855) that yielded 2.5 million acres of land in State Government U.S. and delimited the territory of a reserve for the Suquamish.



following his speech to the Assembly of the tribes of North America in 1854:

"The Great Chief in Washington has expressed its desire to buy our land. The Grand Chief has expressed his friendship and his caring feelings. He is very generous, because we know he did not need our friendship in return.
However, we will consider your offer because we know that if we do not sell, the white man will come with guns and will take our land.
But can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the earth? Strange idea for us!
If we do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water, how can you buy it? The
every corner of this land is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every scarf of mist in the dark woods, every clearing, buzzing insects, all that is sacred in the memory and life of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.
The dead white men, when they wander among the stars, forget their homeland. Our dead never forget the beauty of this land, because she is the mother of the red man, we're part of this land as it belongs to us.
The perfumed flowers are our sisters, the deer, the horse, the great eagle are our brothers, the mountain ridges, the juices of the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man himself, all belong to the same family.
So when he asks us to buy our land, Grand Chief Washington requires a lot of us.
Grand Chief has assured us that we would book a corner where we could live comfortably, we and our children, and it would be our father and we his children.
We will consider your offer to buy our land, but it will not be easy, because this land for us is sacred.
The sparkling water of streams and rivers is not water only, it is the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you will need to remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children and teach them that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of the past and the memories of my people. The murmur of the water is the voice of my father's father.
The rivers are our brothers they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you will need to remember that rivers are our brothers and yours, and teach your children and you must now show them the kindness that you would for a brother.
The red man has always retreated before the white man, as the mist of the mountains fled before the rising sun. But the ashes of our fathers are sacred. Their graves are holy ground, so these hills, these trees, this corner of the earth are sacred to us. We know that the white man does not understand our thoughts. For him, a piece of land worth another because it is the foreigner who comes at night to plunder the earth according to its needs. The soil is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered, he continued his journey. He left behind the graves of their fathers and do not care.
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandparents. So they respect it, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our people. Teach your children what we teach our children that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the son of the earth. When men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
We know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to earth. We know that all things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected.
Everything that happens to the earth befalls the son of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life, there is a thread of tissue. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
But we will consider your offer to go to the reservation that you intend for my people. We will live apart and in peace. No matter where we spend the rest of our days. Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have experienced the shame of defeat after they sank days idle and defile their bodies with sweet foods and strong drink. No matter where we spend the rest of our days? They are more numerous. A few more hours, a few winters, and there will be no more children of the great tribes that once lived on this land, or who still wander in the woods in small groups, none will be there to weep over the graves of a people once so powerful, so full of hope as yours. But why mourn the passing of my people? Tribes are made of men, not more. Men come and go, like waves of the sea
Even the white man, whose God walks with him and talks like a friend with his friend, can not escape the common destiny. Maybe we are still brothers, and we'll see. But we know one thing that the white man may discover one day, our God is the same God. Although you think now that you have as you would like to own our land, you can not do. He is the God of men, and compassion is the same for the red man and white man.
Land is precious in his eyes, which harms the earth covering the creator of contempt. The whites will go, too, and perhaps before the other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed, and a nice night, you suffocate in your own waste.
But in your loss, you will shine bright lights, lit by the power of God who brought you into this country, and who, for a purpose known to him, gave you power on this earth and the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, we do not understand when the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses tamed, when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the smell of many men, the appearance of hills ripe for harvest is damaged by the cables talking.
Where is the thicket? Disappeared. Where is the eagle? There is no more. What say goodbye to the pony and agile for hunting? It's finally live and get to survive.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. And if we accept, for it will be well assured of receiving the reservation you have promised. Here, perhaps, we can finish the brief days we have left to live according to our desires. And when the last red man has vanished from this earth, and that his memory will be only a shadow of a cloud rolling prairie, these shores and forests still houses the spirits of my people. For they love this earth as the newborn loves the beat of the heart his mother. So if we sell you our land, love it as we loved. Take care of it as we have taken care.
Keep in mind the memory of this country, as when you take it. And with all your strength and with all your mind, with all your heart, preserve it for your children and love him as God loves you all.
One thing we know: our God is the same God. He loves this land. The white man himself can not escape the common destiny. Maybe we are brothers, we'll see. "

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Photo Copyright © Edward C. Curtis