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persists that margin, the difference generated by your avatar, but what you propose. When I try to adivinarte behind your avatar shows me other aspects probably hide if we were in a virtual world. I try to know on these differences, which are as yours as your eyes or your back. Is it what you choose to show, is so deliberately?
not think so.
avatar is also why we do not control.

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State

learn to move in avatar state. It must be like walking on the moon: the steps are not equal. Gravity is another. Simulated, trying to assimilate the metaverse to our physical world. But we know we're on the other hand, even without leaving our room.
learn to accept that an important part of our lives spent in avatar state. And if we had to learn to live with our size avatar, same thing all the time we are pushed to accept that our love here is love avatar, without ceasing to be love.
contrary.
suspect it is the purest love I had in my life.

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Your account

I want you in my story. I want to be my story. That memory
fragile and deep treasure with so much zeal.

want to be your story. I caress every word.

Second Life is our playground.

also the ruins of that park. We keep giving

quoted here, without even talking.

telepathically.

telepathy Is there a heart?

My avatar is a way to call.

is a language.

A secret language in the most intimate of our senses.

We met in dreams.

And there is nothing more real than they are.

always come back to that cave in Wonderland, as the first time.

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avatar Avy

Maybe I feel more comfortable with you in our instance avatar. What if I dijiera that intimacy we build is probably more intense than that achieved in Real Life? I like to know as well.
I like the image of yourself that you give me time.
The way you show your Avy.

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Lost in Second Life

Second Life is, though sometimes relativize, a form of sociability. Although we isolate (many of the most interesting and endearing avatars I met are extremely lonely). Still, everyone has their contact list (small, large, intimate). I
old avatar. At least for the time of the metaverse. And every time I enter I can not find anyone I knew.
is true: there are around me dozens of new contacts, friendships possible.
But I am overcome inertia. I spin, I have no desire to meet anyone, I would like to meet who learned to appreciate. Nostalgia for old
phases of the metaverse? What
pathetic.
Second Life can also be very old.

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Persistence

I return. Is it the same experience that continues?
Is it a new experience?
A new chapter is a new story? Why
need us to create a continuity? Why
need to reinvent and start from the other side?
What Second Life is different than in Real Life?

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Just over two weeks. Not much time to RL, but I think in SL (my time is not connected) and seems to me an eternity.
I have a feeling both times (RL and SL) coupled in my head.
That is, I think my fitness and my avatar state.
There is definitely a sense avatar.

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WE MOVE!


we changed our look, but this time with some added inconvenience for all visitors to the blog.

We moved. From now on you have to take another rutapara reach this space for encounter, dialogue and fun, just across the river and through the trees. Specifically you will have to direct you to http://elrincondejaviermarquez.com/

Update your links, please.

See you there!

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Critics 'Rat Pack' in Macgregor

Joseph MacGregor is one of those unique characters that one finds in the vast ocean that is the internet, one of which many speak and just having a considerable weight and influence in such matters, as is the case, as literary criticism.

Joseph met in person recently after reading many of his texts in Anika between books and I must say that I find not only a critic of talent, but also a great guy, friendly and fun. This may sound rally so I will discuss below, but bearing in mind that I say after, not before "the facts", I hope nobody take this the wrong thing.

And it turns out that Joseph has devoted criticism Rat Pack. living in their own way and has promised to make another on Elvis. Heart solo. Elvis's book do not know what will seem, with Sinatra and company could not be nicer. You can read the review on his blog .

Thanks, Joseph!

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Sevillana Trilogy III: That was another thing

Here, fesquita chilly, just released today on the Internet, the third part of the trilogy Seville. After This is not what it was and This is so, now comes That was something else. If the first stars were canis and second, posh, now it's up to the other large group idiosyncratic Seville, the mall-men two hippie-bohemian-anarch of life, who rant against capitalism and just taking a taxi to go to eat at a McDonald's next to the villa of the daddies ... Tan

critical and accurate as usual, but less resultón as beating of humor is concerned. It is undoubtedly the weakest of the three deliveries, but do not fail to see it.

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A white blackbird, and will target and kill the Truths

James Taylor in Spain. What do you do that? Besides being a gentleman and mayorcete, sensitive singer-songwriter as they come, something like a New York Serrat idiosyncrasies, as well, he said, is a white blackbird. Because a Taylor tour through the skin of a bull was so unlikely as to see you here soon Grandpa Willie (Nelson), Uncle Kris (Kristofferson) or Mr. Paul (Simon).

But sometimes, fate is a son of a bitch, and when I say this I mean that they are spending is a bad idea is to kick.

I think the last time Taylor was in Spain, and the first-was in 1992. It has already rained, right? It turns out that he will return just seventeen years after matching his concert in Madrid with Sevilla Springsteen. What if Taylor is like seeing a white blackbird, it's Boss is acting in this court and like watching a full band. Well, Puñeta!, They go and match. The Murphy and happy fucking toast. Total

than the other two dates of the tour are in Valencia (Saturday, July 25) and Girona (August 2). What to do so notorious nonsense? Well, I am proposing an easy rider -musical-bugger off to Valencia to take that weekend. After all, what are six short hours and peak listening to good music?

What if it's worth? Boy (or girl, forgiveness, then come the scandals in press), that is something which one. Is it worth half of the follies and nonsense we ended up doing in life? Well, I say yes because if we did not, what we amused? "Seeing the bikes on Sunday at noon? Amos, go!

And who does not know who is Mr. Taylor, have the courage to discover . Only, yes, if you are someone that you like to know what you consider a song. It's a shame that Spain is so little known, although the U.S. is the true embodiment of the singer. Or more specifically, sentimental singer-songwriter (not mushy). Taylor

great guru became the second generation of songwriters who landed in the seventies after the rise of folk and folk-rock of the sixties and that, after and the urgency of the protest-song-as it was in Spain, opted to sing with feelings, people and relations between them. His baritone voice is unmistakable, almost as much as her tight but brilliant guitar.

Taylor In 2009, just celebrated his forty years on stage, as it was in early 1969 was released his first album (in England came out in December 68) entitled under his own name, like so many other debuts this generation. And this album marked what was to be Taylor's career: popular, discreet and somewhat rough. He had gone to London to try to get away from the drug environment in which it was immersed and recorded the album in the Beatles' label, Apple. Happy and content, returned home without having achieved unhooked and shortly after making landfall had a motorcycle accident which broke both hands. Implications? Adrift promoting their first album. A This is called start with the wrong foot.

But when there is talent, it is not so difficult, and a year later, their second album, Sweet Baby James , managed to get into the Top 5 a song, Fire and Rain , with which his name was to sound a little more. How did it end to establish its popularity? As for why they are friends. As Taylor was half depression among their attachment to drugs and their irregular career, his friend, the singer also Calore King, he sang 've got a friend, a topic-temazos, which would put on his second album, the essential Tapestry . But Taylor King liked it so much that he suggested something, and Taylor could burn out before her. So Jimmy's version was a hit while Carole was like "a version" when, obviously, was the opposite. But anyway, as I said, that's what friends are for.

What will finally matter? We'll see, will have to think carefully. For now, if anyone is interested in James Taylor or want to go to Valencia, where they say that water is very healthy and sound, raise your hand.

Fire and Rain


Yesterday morning I was told you were gone, Susanne

had plans to finish you,

walked this morning and wrote this song, I can barely remember

to sender.

I've seen fire and I've seen rain I seen sunny days

I thought it would never end,

've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought
see you again.

Do I'll look with contempt, Jesus?
You have to help resist
have to see me go another day,
My body hurts and my time is near,
and will not do it any other way.

I've seen fire and I've seen rain I seen sunny days

I thought it would never end,

've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought
see you again.

I have been reconsidering how
back toward the sun,
the Lord knows when the cold winds blow,
they will make your head spin.
Well, they spend hours and hours on the phone
to talk about things that happen,
sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on
earth.

I've seen fire and I've seen rain I seen sunny days

I thought it would never end,

've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,
but I always thought I'd see you, baby, once again
again, now.

I thought I'd see you one more time again,

are some things that come to meet me this time, now,
thought you would, I thought you would,
fire and rain, now ...

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fists (I): Marriages

Mark (Albert Finney): "What kind of people sit down to eat at a restaurant and have nothing to talk about?"
Joanna (Audrey Hepburn): "Marriages"

Two for the Road (1967), Stanley Donen.

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Questions for the Angels, the latest from Paul Simon

awesome, exciting, exquisite, faultless. Paul Simon is always expected to offer new material, but the wait is usually worth it. Now comes a new song Questions for the Angels, which was originally launched as a gift for all those who purchase the new compilation of Simon has been released exclusively only in Starbucks coffee shops U.S.. The song is already on sale Itunes, but only for those living across the pond. But for the guys that are The Sound of Simon, who have succeeded and have gone to their website for all to enjoy.

not miss it. I already put the lyrics, but so far, just close your eyes and be led by the beautiful sound of guitar, extreme tenderness of the voice, the evocative atmosphere that transmits ...

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Sometimes ...

Sometimes you just sleep. Sometimes just living
.

Sometimes I just want to achieve that for which I fight.

Sometimes you just think. Sometimes you just look
.

Sometimes I only hear when something worthwhile.

Sometimes you just fought. Sometimes I just want
. Sometimes just trying

happiness.

Sometimes you just imagine. Sometimes you just caress
. Sometimes you just kiss

for that love is the road.

Sometimes you just wait. Sometimes
just breathe. Sometimes you just smile

to see that I have a new day.

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Because he has touched your perfect body with your mind ...

For today I decided to go with Leonard Cohen, but not even hang the video of a song. This is his most popular, Suzanne , which through its paragraph playoffs, my favorite. As a part of Sunday. Spirituality of pure sound without chest beating. Great lines.

And Jesus was a sailor
he walked on water.
and spent much time watching
from his lonely wooden tower. And when

sure knew only drowning men could see him
said: "All men will be sailors then
until the sea shall free them."
But he himself was broken
long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human,
sank beneath your wisdom like a stone.
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind.
And you think you may trust Him because He
touched your perfect body with your mind ...

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The 'famous blue raincoat' by Leonard Cohen

If there is anything better than a good song or a good story is a good song, narrative, and in that, Cohen is a master of none. This masterpiece Famous blue raincoat. Happy Saturday.

Famous blue raincoat

is four in the morning of the end of December.
I'm writing just to see if you're better.
New York is cold but I like where I live.
The music is on Clinton Street all afternoon.

I heard you're building
your little house hidden in the desert.
're living for nothing now.
hope you keep some kind of memory.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair.
She said you had given it
that night that you planned to act decisively.
Did you ever clear?

Oh, the last time we saw you you looked so much older.
Your famous blue raincoat
was bent on your shoulder.
had gone to the station
to meet with all trains
but came home without Lili Marlene
and my wife tried a slice of your life
and when she returned, it was nobody's wife.

Well, see you there with a rose in his mouth,
a little more detail gypsy.
see that Jane is away.
She sends her regards.

And what I can tell you, my brother, my murderer?
What I can tell you think?
guess I'll miss you, I guess I forgive you.
'm glad you brought forward on my way.

If you ever come back here
for Jane or for me
think your enemy is asleep
and his wife is free.
Hey, thanks for
turbulence that took from her eyes.
I thought I was there for good
so I never tried.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair.
She said you had given it
that night that you planned to act decisively.
Sincerely, L. Cohen

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Because things can be simpler than we'd like ...

(Editor's blog taken My Cooltour , whose visit I strongly recommend if you want to enjoy the widest variety of content yarn all by a remarkable sensitivity. Someday I'll have to speak to its author, Paul Simon and a Chinese in the sleeper train Madrid-Paris).

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Yes, that's exactly what I had. Yesterday was a busy day, with enough work both morning and afternoon, well seasoned with further decisions on the cover of the novel (by the way, now I fall, I think I have not said anything about this in the blog. I note!). I do not know how many hours I spent at the computer in total, but the fact that he was surrendered.

After a few beers with my parents and my brother came home, had dinner with sempie and saw a movie, the Night, a police thriller really fit with Joaquin Phoenix, Mark Wahlberg and Robert Duvall (as perfect and charming as always). I would not finish it, given how tired he was, but I only drank it, satisfied with the experience, but I found the wide-eyed, unable to go to sleep. What do in that situation? Then take advantage. Double hard session on police profession, and the second tape chosen was none other than Serpico, with that masterful Al Pacino in one of his best roles as an agent incorruptible.

was about one thirty in the morning when I went to bed (since I had seen Serpico, I did what sempie called the "Director's Cut", which is more than just summarizing the point in time and little time and a lot of film.) The nice cool night air blowing through past the bedroom window was absent this time. Still, I think I got to take a nap, I'm not sure. In any case, there had been three when I checked the clock for the first time, and there I was, on standby, ready for anything but sleep.

occur in winter, handiest is read, but anyone light a lamp with the window open (free buffet for mosquitoes!). And that has a kit ready sleepless summer night: the iPod and its good load of stories. Little by little I have been compiling the program dozens of emissions Stories, directed by Juan Jose Plans, which for years gave RNE. Three Tales of Ambroce Bierce-master, and a dozen chapters of Journey to the Center of the Earth fell before, around quarter to five, in desperation, I removed the headphones.

crossed through my mind the temptation to get up and see another movie, but for sure I savvy, and there were many things I had planned to do today and to desist in my efforts to get some sleep. Had to try. So I closed my eyes and I got carried away ... Until I got tired.

No way. Yes, at least I was not bored. Among all the windows off of the blocks ahead of mine had a bit of mystery in Hitchcock made "courtesy of neighbors who did nothing but turn on and off lights around the house. Sometimes there were several rooms, sometimes only one, sometimes illuminated the entire floor, including kitchen. And this, for a while. What? Also follow.

At half past six, stretching and the Sun King, gave a lost battle and I stood up. My particular "Director's Cut" of the special edition Abyss allowed me to settle two hours and forty minutes just at eight o'clock. With sempie and ready to go to work and I have full power (more or less), it was time to start this Thursday.

And this is what has given himself this sleepless night. We'll see what the consequences are for the day that follows. For now, I'll make coffee and cargadito rather long.

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A sleepless night thanks (to good friends)

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Before going to sleep

spend a few minutes of the two-thirty in the morning. I do not usually write at night. I know that seems most appropriate, most picturesque, but after working all day, not only am I tired of being at the computer, but also the evening is the only time I have to be with sempie to comment on our journey and, ultimately, to share a little of life.

Today, however, I wanted to stay and write at night.

As I think I said in the previous entry, or at least pointed out, had planned to park the novel that was working, The Ballad of Sam, that I had led, among other things, get my love for the six strings. I had to leave a couple of months ago to dress up the book I hope to see published in the fall, the mystery novel The Feast of Orpheus . And two months is too long, at least for me and for this story.

Regulars to the blog you know that worked for impulse-based setting, de clima, y cuando el feeling se rompe, como diría el amigo Frankie (Sinatra, of course), la cosa se fastidia.

Así que me planteé aplazar esta novela. Dejarla ahí, en reposo, en una carpeta del ordenador, mientras me dedicaba a alguna otra historia más ágil y entretenida, pues La balada de Sam comenzó como eso que llaman "obra de madurez" y llegué a alcanzar un punto en el que me asustaba madurar tanto.

Pero en los últimos días de retiro y reflexión retomé el texto Releí algunos pasajes y no pude resistirme a continuar escribiendo. Eso es bueno, dirá alguno. Tal vez. Más me vale. En este momento of the plot I'm in a Mexican hacienda, east of the city of Chihuahua, recalling an old man with eighty-five years a crime that occurred in the same place thirty-two years ago, during the filming of the movie's most famous Sam Lonergan (aka Sam Peckinpah, or is it vice versa?). The evening wind blows and brings the scent of juniper and other shrubs of the plain. The old man wants me to stay and hear you, but I have a dream, I'm tired.

the other side of the screen, sempie sleeps with the little light on my side of the bed on, waiting for me. Some mosquitoes crackle when approaching Lamap bulb at my back, and liquor was Sierra Tequila watered down by the ice earlier in the almost empty glass next to my keyboard.

It's time to rest.

I leave with Sam Peckinpah and the trailer for Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia , a story that has nothing to do with my novel, a film that is their spiritual source.

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Story: I do not give flowers

Pecadillos youth. Everyone has their own. Here's another of mine: one of several stories I wrote when I was sixteen or seventeen songs that inspired me were suggestive. In this case involves an issue of Neil Diamond, You do not bring me flowers . In it, a couple reproach all the things you already do, consumed a passion for the routine. In my story, a couple reviews those memories forever before leaving home they created together. It's a terribly ornate prose, of exaggerated melancholy but what can we do? Is it about sixteen, right?

I do not give flowers

used to be wonderful. "Forever" was the most significant words in the world for them. So.

Today the house is dark, just a few glimpses of the February sun seep between the cells of the shade of the room. He moves between tables, chairs, doors and shelves, confused in the shadows, with the same precision as a blind man in his home. Too much time living with they, too old to get them. But are not his, or her, belong to that house, which is in the hands of the past, a past evocative and sweet, in which they learned to laugh and mourn. A past that has become bitterness on his lips. The wind sweeps their hearts as destination deciduous falls on the wet pavement.

"I'm not talking the way home," he says. She listens to you and close your eyes. "We were saying we do not love you," he responds.

The bed is cold. Grande. Huge. She recently lost on those sheets. Shortness of breath and needs to be built in the middle of the night. Yet it is the same bed then, in that was not enough space to unleash the expression of her love, the love they received, which was equal to the love you gave.

pad on the pillow, the pillow under the bear. Photography, small jewelry, watch this French antiques market. She wipes a drop of nostalgia that burns my cheek. And look at the picture hanging over the head. Painting that cost them so much ... But, how much they wanted! And yet it was one more experience, but one of the wonders of this adventure that was supposed to love each day. As travel to Paris and New York as weekend ghosts, like the guitar signed by their most admired artists: Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon ... There is, supported by the dandy, who remains silent in the mirror so many kisses, so touching, so many words, so many silences. Its strings, no doubt, would not issue more than sad sounds.

"I do not sing love songs," she says.

He enters the bedroom, but not responding. And then she looks, but does not say anything. Lower your eyes and go to his side, toward the lobby. He can not resist the attraction of the bed. One admires the change in their attitude. In recent times, as he left her, did nothing but kiss her cheek, turn on your pillow and turn off the light. Not sure who to hurt more than that. Of course, now that memory haunts him, especially when compared to those days of passion and fantasy, between the silence of the forbidden and the expression of the unspeakable. So I never turned off the light. In fact, they needed even on. Cross

the house, retracing a lifetime, cracking what seemed unbreakable, and come to the entrance. The clarity that filters through the shelves of the kitchen blind cut into several lines on her face. For the first time in a long time their eyes connect, and converse, and console. But then they turn back, because they understand that it can only hurt.

"Did you think I could learn to say goodbye?" I question the approach.

She closes her eyes and tries to stop the rotation of the Earth, the expansion of the universe, and again when he could not wait to love when hated to leave. He walks over and gently lifted her chin until she returns to look into his eyes. And the eyes are broken, question is begging. But the two already known all the answers, all the alternatives.

"I did not tell me you needed me," she explains.

becomes then to the front door and opens it. You are about to cross, but stops at the threshold. And tour. And shorten the two steps separate you from him to give him a last kiss, he feels like the gentle breeze of any of those walks on the beach at sunset.

And she is gone. And they both think. For he is now the point of no return, the end of the story. And nobody wants that to happen. But both are aware of reality.

"I do not give flowers," she says, breaking into tears, before closing the door behind him.

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Story: A finger nothing

was a finger, nothing else. What face or profile? What did it matter? It was a finger, nothing else. Could it really be that bad? I knew that if he was aware that he could be really terrible. And yet, one finger seemed to have you hypnotized. Appeal to him as few women had managed to do throughout his life. Clear that few women had the color, the smell, the texture. Few women had made him feel as good as I could get one finger.

Only one finger of bourbon.

it really could be so bad?

took the small glass, thick glass bottom and carved, and lifted him place very slowly up to eye level. Movement so carefully concealed that some fear, as if only one drop of that elixir could make blowing up the room, but also foreshadowed an impulse of desire content of morbid curiosity about the properties that could bring.

knew exactly what it was capable of bourbon. Too well. So managed to win and forced to leave that hint of a spell. The image of her daughters scared while watching the fights with his wife, or when it caused him to stumble around the house to throw him into the street, after presenting it at dawn, almost unconscious, boasting of having drunk what they had to live that month ... Those pathetic pictures of his past life side by side crossed his mind like a sharp knife, immediately freeing him from the attraction of that glass of bourbon.

But, only one finger ...

Those around him knew nothing of his last days. New city, new job, the same family. It was not easy, but managed to recover in full. Promised much and accomplished almost everything. It was a matter of days, rather a number of years. Much time fighting as he had never imagined I'd have to do, to feel disgusted by everything and everyone, and true self-repulsion; time to learn again to live without having to start each day with a drink as invigorating as lethal, from which was connecting up one after another until he was hurrying down the round.

was astonished to think how much things had changed, how they now respected themselves and how this situation was reflected in the love and understanding she received from those around him. Now I just need it to live, the love of his family, the presence of his friends, an occasional cigarette, something harmless and enjoyable sex a weekend, maybe an interesting journey ... It was nice to live well.

And that was before the finger of bourbon, she might be calling him with seduction infallible. Could not know, would not rather, because he had learned not to listen to your voice. There was not much mystery, only had to disarm it of course had charm. Neither appealed to him and his copper-colored syrupy, and his laconic movement to turn the glass gently from side to side, or the peaceful and evocative scent that seemed to escape from those tiny waves of water from Tennessee. How was it possible that none of those present were drinking? Those lawyers were vulgar people. The firm itself was pretty scrawny, with nearly all workers piled in this room. At least he had his small office.

was barely nine o'clock at night but this was a party at after all, right? However, all went back and forth with beer bottles and glasses of wine, drinks as boring and ordinary as a sip of water. He, however, had opted for the juice, pineapple or apricot flavors with some personality, with poise. Was not that, at the end of the day?

was only a finger of bourbon, apparently so insignificant that no one seemed to notice him. A while ago that no one spoke, since he shook hands with the fellow who was retiring and apologized before going to the bathroom. On leaving went to his office, where he saw the whole movement of the evening. He sat at his table and rummaged in her drawers. I wanted a folder that kept some old jokes with which one partner and he had joked a few weeks ago. The folder was not there. Have you saved really those jokes? Then ran his fingers with something pleasant to the touch, it seemed leather. Grasped the object and slowly pulled the drawer. As was found to have revealed it was an old trunk, its trunk, crowned by the shot glass she had been given in the "Lost Weekend", a local who was a regular for some time.

had watched the clip with a strange sense of unease, as if a small child and that object, a noise coming from his closet at night. Who put it there? Perhaps himself? Of course it was him! Who else? But when?
course, was the gift. I was going to give it to the partner he was leaving. He must have saved there days ago, weeks maybe, when he got the idea. It had been a hectic time at the law which certainly was of the head. Would give an instant, of course, but first wanted to check it was OK ... Yes ... it was not broken ... and stained ... Great! and would be empty, of course, had to check.

took the cup and placed it on the table. It was beautiful, very beautiful, and elegant, with a figure carved in the shape and a firm footing, as must be the type of vessels. There, amid the desk covered with papers, seemed to be something special. Then unscrewed the cap and carefully, leaned to the pouch. He felt his heart racing. Began to feel warm. Gasped.

and the liquid began to fall.

seemed to be the slow motion, or maybe it was up to them, it was pouring with adequate precision to perpetuate the moment. He saw the last drop down and breathed deeply. Yes
remained something in the flask. Not much.

One finger, nothing else.

A colleague approached him to ask if she wanted to dance. "Dancing him? No, thank you very much, he was a klutz. The chief secretary offered a sandwich soon after. That girl was beautiful. He refused the offer and watched her go. Yes, of course was a good guy.
He looked down and watched the bourbon in the glass, then returned to fetch the Secretary among the people. I had nice legs, tall and shapely. Was it mandatory that all secretaries will be wearing skirts? His bust was the most erotic, but the best, no doubt, smile.

was a girl so nice! I felt like one of ... He shook his head and thought of his wife. For a few seconds remembered the last time they made love and said to himself that he was a lucky man. What nonsense to think? There were many dangers in the world, many ways to shatter the lives. If there was something mean in life was being unfaithful to his wife. Anything but that. I knew many families torn apart by a moment of awkward lust. He, ever. It was a good man.

sighed and felt proud of it.

He then turned decisively and picked up the glass, this time without much ceremony. Liquid looked and smiled. A finger of bourbon. God, just one finger! And there are so many horrible things in this world ... He opened his mouth as much as he could and emptied the contents of the glass in it.

As the drink touched his throat, closed his eyes and sat down with both hands on the table. The liquor went all the way to the stomach like a snake crawling swiftly stalking its prey, and upon arrival, felt curled inside.

had the sudden urge to mourn, seemed an internal struggle. He thought of his wife and their daughters, the fellow who was retiring and could not suppress angry tears.
There are so many horrible things in this world ...

struck the table with his fist as hard as he could and bade farewell to those present before leaving. I needed a drink. The shot had warmed the tongue. Look for a bar, ask another bourbon and would be back quickly to cover up their flavor with pineapple juice.

Only a drink and it's over.

One finger, nothing else.

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was not ... parrandaaaaaa that was!

Well, that ... I'm not dead ... I binge ... and a encimaaaa vagrancy. It is that I do not want anything to write, or update or answer (but I read every day ... yes.)

As long ago that we "saw" as you put some pictures of the last wedding (on 23 May) so you can see my "feathers" ...
jajajajaa

My "dear" always gets me "great" in the pictures ... pose observe what femininity .... if anything I used a tripod ....




Here again like that ... In short, thank goodness that at least you see the whole ... because the model is that makes you want to practice shooting at the boor ... (Have seen that position of legs? Why anyone tells you that you're looking like that before you take a picture?: S)




And here the detail of the feathers. Cutest I would go with my feathers ... (Although I could have removed the bowling alley to see something more vestidín Right?).
God! Gill is mine Is that ?.... : Or did the pictures fat double chin? joer ... I need a diet now! : S



Well, here you have good taste (or view ...) after disastrous here's my photos of this cute little thing to cheer.

Besinosssss!

What Helps Itchiness After Brazilian Wax

Story: The shower

I'll be a few days "off the grid", and that it is not very stopped, I decided to dust off some old stories and plan their subsequent publication. I hope not to take too long to return to the routine, so long dismissed as accurate and longing. Meanwhile, I hope that these stories do not be bored too.

Have you ever been in bed and started to leak any tap, making noise a blind or have you noticed a light burning forgot? The immediate impulse is to get up to fix the problem but is that always a wise decision?

Shower

A drop. Another drop. Another. Ana stretched the sheet as he could to go beyond your ear. What time was it? She fell asleep just lying, but something had awakened. Germain had not yet arrived. Another drop. That shower's go crazy any day. Why exactly dripping insisted night that her husband took to return from his shift? Every drop of water slammed into the bottom of the tub on her head sounded like someone pulling the wall with a large hammer. Could rise to close the tap. Would make sense. But I was so scared.

always had happened, as a child, and since then his father told him that those horror films were going to eat the head. Germain also laughed at her for that reason. "What you see if after you hold no fear?" But could help it, he loved. And every time the damn shower began to leak, she saw the scene with clarity: the young half naked go to pull the tap, unaware that a psychopath defaced with a rusty butcher knife looks close ... Well, that metiesen with it whatever they wanted, he never expected to rise.

Another drop. Another

more.

comes a time in which his anxiety made him imagine that the psycho out of his hiding place and headed down the aisle, slowly, slowly, toward the bedroom. What was that? Have you heard a noise, a door perhaps? Another drop again, and saw in his mind a large figure, somewhat stooped, dragging one leg as he walked. Passed by the bathroom door y. .. Are not leaking shower? Suddenly he stopped. I was so immersed in their fears had not been aware of ... No, again. It was only an illusion. Left to drip for a while, just in time to ... that this be deflected pass along your imagination to the bathroom.

backs to the door, Ana pulled the sheet further, as if thereby establish an insurmountable barrier to the creation of his mind. And yet you did not hear anything? Anything beyond the drops in the shower and the ticking of the clock the room, something beyond imperturbable silence of the night? A shiver ran down his back. I hated that feeling, so common it yet. It was like bathing in a beach where they would not touch the bottom. It was the fear of what lurked in the shadows, beyond the gap. Would it have already entered the bedroom? Perhaps it was watching ... Well, enough! Anne gave a slap on the bed to strengthen his sudden outbreak of value. Or she would or would not be able to sleep all night. "Let's go for that shower!" Finally exclaimed while sitting up in bed.

First was the smell of putrefaction, and moments later the hot breath landfall in his neck. He turned instinctively to find its origin and came upon a heap of flesh, skin and nails of metal, perhaps once was a face. Barely had time to be horrified before a dirty and rusty machete across his stomach. With an almost animal roar, the figure in the shadows drew the weapon from the body of Ana with the ease with which they had gutted a rag doll. In his last breath, the girl came to see a large yellow eyes and smiling. Was he smiling? The machete sailed the dark before removing the head of Anne of your body with a blunt blow.

Silence took over the night. Only survived the rotten breath executioner and the slight friction against the dying flesh. Shortly thereafter, the backlit silhouette moved down the hall with steps as heavy as punch drunk. Between his fingers held tough and rough hair of Ana, a broken toy, the doll was unseated.

on the floor behind him, were the dreams become dark slimy trails. Reached the bathroom and raised the head to attach the strands with clumsy knots lumpy around the curtain rod shower. There

head hung and Hermann a dark and filthy mess.

Ana Del severed neck one drop.

Another drop. Another

more.

Red Bumps On The Back Of The Tongue

30 years without John Duke Wayne

The June 11, 1979, that is, a day like today 30 years ago, died Marion Michael Morrison, aka John Wayne. Since I fell in holding that date he had in mind to pay tribute in some way in this blog, but it crossed my path guys Esquire magazine , and I'm done writing for them an article about Duke, about her life and the unique circumstances of his death.

So, why repeat myself? Here I leave the article on the was, is and will always be my favorite actor. And not because they are better than others., But simply because my memories and my nostalgia on its side, and that is something so powerful that no Al Pacino is simply skip it.

The owner of the report, published in the June issue of the magazine with Christian Bale on the cover, entitled John Wayne, an American hero (click on image to read it ... if want).

Left here also my heartfelt tribute to Duke, one of those magical players continue to enjoy us with dozens of stories that made it great film when it was first and foremost, the greatest show on earth. Wayne died but I still remember. Let's do it now more than ever with the most beautiful farewell few have been shot in the history of cinema, shot, of course, by John Ford.

Medical Mutual Of Ohio Iud

My songs: Congratulations

is seen that lately I'm not as active or writing or my posts have the same interest as above, so we will have change of pace. Today I can think of things to write about, but I have no desire, for which no one-trick I am inspired. So when in doubt, a little music.

I do not know if I talked about the recording equipment that I bought recently, to able to record my new songs with more quality-without exaggerating either, technique and sound. Well, this has been one of the first tests. It is a composition of mine, but of Paul Simon. Congratulations is entitled, and belongs to his first solo album. Although almost nobody knows, I speak of the general public, not the faithful, the theme is wonderful, very exciting. I've always loved. Talk about the difficulty of communication that occurs many times in the couple, and the need to take really serious relationship. Anyway, since the instrumentation was previously recorded by a friend, I decided to put to a voice. If you dislike

much to stop playing and go away in haste to another blog. Thus, as you will forget the bad experience and you turn around here soon ... Hello everyone!

Congratulations

Congratulations
apparently has done it again
and I have not felt so miserable
in my life.
Oh, and do not know when it happened, I do not know when it happened.

I realize that many people
get over it, but
Far more than just queuing
in court today.

Love is not a game.
Love is not a toy.
Love is not a romance.
love feel it deep inside.
And love will leave you exhausted
and speechless.
will not break you will not give you relief.

'm willing to learn.
Can you answer me please?
Can a man and a woman
live together in peace?
Oh, live together in peace.

Do Polyps In Gallbladder Hurt

A dreadful humiliation capacity

put 44 bullets in the body.

How many shots are needed to steal a man's life? How many downloads require hatred and injustice to be satiated? In the case of Chilean singer Victor Jara, 44 missiles were received. An endless humiliation of man, speak of the executioners themselves, in their pursuit of pain beyond the death of the enemy that wanted to suffer the worst way and above any consideration. The horror. The terror.

It happened on September 15, 1973 in the Estadio Chile, sports center room transmuted into killers. The singer and theater director, author of letters The right to live in peace or Te recuerdo Amanda, had become a bitter enemy of the most reactionary right - do not it always? - And had done gala better than anyone else of that legend Woody Guthrie hit his guitar: This machine kills fascists . The elected president, Salvador Allende, Jara found in one of his top aides (because when society needs a change, the artists also must be involved), and so, when Pinochet and his men seized power, put their names at the top of the list.

A Allende committed suicide as . A Victor did go through hours of unspeakable torture, causing the tongue, grinding the toes with the butts of their rifles, in short, the weapons used to fight against fascism. But as someone said years before the imposition of violence is up, but not convinced. Thus, thirty-six years later, Victor Jara is continually remembered and honored, while the names of the perpetrators is masked with fear and shame.

But the case has taken a radical turn in recent days. Chilean Justice is prosecuting several soldiers involved in the savage murder. Al same time, in order to shed more light on the case and to carry out a detailed investigation, yesterday conducted the exhumation of the artist.

Yes, no doubt, I am sure that the same people who applauded his death, today menearán head to read the news in the media, sigh and say, "Why not let the poor man rest in peace? What be gained by digging up the past? Why will not quiet as the dead? " Oops, I think that I have not left the Chilean accent. Maybe it's because I thought they were españolitos the speakers. Because, after all, there in Chile, and Spain, I believe that should be a lot of cynical and much son ... her parents, rest easy every night, with their dead either in roofs and peace, care less what happened to those thousands of dead and missing and their families.

Forgetting is never good, ever. It is important to remember, know, know. And then, with the truth in hand, is judged, he is pardoned, it is similar ... But you can not bury the past. Because one of these days we sit at the table the ghost of terrorism requires the dish of revenge.