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Comin 'back from my silence.

Ok. They were ages since I wrote this little corner of the Web, but somehow today I went to the head of tornarvici.
What happened in my life since I stopped posting? Good question, to which I could only respond with two words: all or nothing. All because I had my first emotional bond of love public official from the thigh, I cried for my Professor of Italian, I battled against love and I came out, I think, winning, I went to London. But no: the emotional connection is recognized by the world vanished without a trace of tears (at least from what I'm concerned), the school is over and I do not think the lessons for months, there is no escape from love, there are only gauze to hide it, but if you take a shot a bit 'strong return to the blood-stained gauze.
Write me back your mind clear, it is true, I see black on white is my experience and my disappointment finally making them full of meaning. The thoughts did not form after all, the A and the T so.

Lendi C.

Harem Ecchi Mature, Anime

scrivere_dellecosechesuccedono

The existing list of what has been said (already) is a piece of paper that I keep in my little black agenda.
...

A man crying on a hot July day, with hands clasped and red wire on the railing of the bridge. Almost comically stretched over the small brook dirty.
The birds of the nearby trees, occasionally, they sang. They were silent, from time to time.
The man was crying false tears for the wrongs committed. The sun dried up the black asphalt and, again, was in July.

People walked as they walk each day. Straight. In simple thoughts of straight roads, ignoring changes invisible.
The shade of the leaves, moves from time to time by the weak wind, engulfed the weeping man, ignored by crowds on their way.
A young woman nearby, laughed a loud laugh and a little coarse. The dog of an old lady with big ears and the size of mouse, dog sniffed the ass of the next. Large-pastor from the air arrogant bastard.
And the man cried, but could not even throw in the small stream dirty. It would only hurt a lot and it would have seemed ridiculous. Perhaps the young woman would laugh again, even more rudely.

An elderly man, who could also be respected, sought empty glass bottles in small green bins rubbish pedestrian. Carrying two plastic bags from the supermarket. It smelled of warm beer, but the man who cried plan would not be able to distinguish the smell in the breeze.
Crying on small streams insignificant, in fact, the thoughts are smells and stomach usually changes the taste of the air closed in the summer.
The old lady and her dog walked past the old rat-bum of the bottles, not far from the man who cried tears dry quickly. How noble princess
lapsed.

It would probably be enough for only a brief smile of mom (or maybe two words of kindness free) on that hot July day, to make it less bad two small dead future. But this, from time to time, among people who walk straight.

Letter Of Disconnection For Telephone

Ma .. I wonder if one day I could write a long-awaited news ... I
Meanwhile
dream ... dream ... dream

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scrivere_damore

poet of the evening is the night of all. When the sun was low
colors of dreams and the clouds are the lines drawn by the hand of an artist I recognize.
the evening of the poet's evening of sweet silence. A soul that rests in itself.
The light wind brings a peace impossible, and the wakes of international flights leave written illegible.
In the countryside, small steps running on wooden floors echoed in an echo of gay love empty houses.
the evening of the poet is the evening of the color of wheat.
A glass of red wine, half full, is sitting on the kitchen table.

the evening of the poet, I wait for you alone.
look ugly sitting in my comfortable chair and watch the world change in his time of peace.
In a small sip of red wine waiting for you, but it's as if you were sitting on my lap, and smiling at me kindly, I repeat it once again in the evening as you like, in that perfect moment of vague feelings.

Dementia Speech Therapy

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(hands on my head are smooth. Without calluses. No scars. Fingernails small and regular.
My boss nearly sixty years and I never close a hand like that. It feels like wax. It makes me feel.)

Every time that I support his fingers on the keyboard, I am assailed by the difficulty of writing. The ideas that I have hiding, ashamed. Small.
My eyes are half closed and I enjoy the sound of keys. Click the slightly stronger at the end of each word.
Point, at the head.
I do not see anymore. I never could see. I often feel old and I have no reason. You need a reason to write and I do not think I have it. For this all becomes difficult. I write for myself and re-read. I write because I can not see me. I can not look at me.

If only something would come out for no reason, one day, then know that there are.
I could even see a small piece of landscape.
would be easy if we could look into his eyes, without lying to a mirror. Automatically.
When I look, I look into your eyes.

Sometimes I look at my hands. The
I filled wounds. Burned, hard frosts. Maybe then I might be able to write what in my hand, just read.

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swap


... And between a dusting and the other, swapping "8th of embroidery Survival Kit" is finished, a beautiful experience ...
I sent a. ..
(I still can not say someone has not yet received) ...

and I have received from ...

forbicine2 Saturday will send the swap, this one over and I'll send you a. ..

too too good these exchanges!

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He had just started to piss in that limbo of non-thought that always accompanies the moment.

The bathroom door is closed next shot, behind a man came running.
Fart thundering in B flat for two and a half seconds. Conclusion triptych rhythm down. Instant
stinks, at least two octaves higher.
The bathrooms of the workplace as a place for recovery of a natural etiquette now lost.

The Indian food at the end literally, is always the one that stinks the most. At least
reported to western standards.
In Europe, the German reign.

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News

Noooo, but with this heat can not continue ... I gather with a spoon, as a kind of melted ice cream?!?
not only, I have a husband / painter who has painted the house ... and this weekend I expect to have to clean it all ...

in less than a month I'm going on vacation ...
3 weeks of pure relaxation, three weeks in which charge the batteries to start over again ... 3 weeks of doing nothing!

For one week vacation leave and go to Paris ... my dream is slowly coming true ... I can not wait!

This has been a productive week ... next week there will be the shipment of my first swap "8th of embroidery kit of survival"

and just send you my combination and will receive the package will post my creation, it's too pretty, and the craze is just overwhelming me swap .. .
I also finished with the scissor trovaforbici swap Forbicine2 ... I think troooppo beautiful, and I think I guessed the taste of my Swappin ...
today I also finished the embroidery keychains wall hanging that I have in my living room, I just have to assemble it and I think I will let you admire these days ...
do is to tell good sauna and in the next news!

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died in his sleep calm the beast that lives in the zoo.
died satisfied, leaving behind a small world, with a stupid smile.
The man who cleans the zoo, when found, it has a sad heart. But sorry for himself.
We cry for those who always remains, when a good friend goes away.

The Scream that offered little hope everyday no longer exists, even in power.
Not even the great beast has done it. Not present in the dignity not to starve. Or a broken heart.
By the time the man had been taken, the beast was already in place. Maybe he
of memories, the beast. Perhaps they had the man.

It is said that animals, at least some animals, have short-term memory.
recall only remote facts. Deep feelings recorded. Imprinting.
A day to forget day to be in prison. And to have a full belly.
The man who sweeps the floor thinks only of himself, watching the beast, now eternally without memory.

Doujin Moe.usmember Doujin Free

cross stitch

after much waiting and a lot of anxiety to know all, now is the big day ...
Saturday, June 26th I met sicilianuzze Forum XSP

the meeting was to be at 10.00 Mc Donald all'Etnapolis side, small detail ... I arrived a bit late because Seby, I was very pleasantly wrong way (I was doing ferry) and after we made we went home already Agata, Apple60, lives in close contact with nature, with animals, trooooppo beautiful .. .
we arrived and we made the souvenir photos, we were in 14, really ...

was also the birthday of Agatha, the hostess, have given all the gifts, and I'm so sorry not to have done no little thought ...

someone brought sweets


troooppo good!
someone have the recipe, and as soon as I rolled up to the Turipina!
we made the draw for the little thoughts that each of us has brought ...
I created a box that has happened to Mamamarilù

and instead I raffled Sirbiuccia the name of which has created two biscornu, troooppo nice, he said "are for his statements," as opposed to I like a lot!


At about 12:30 we left ... glad to have you know ... so nice, so good for jobs and so good in the kitchen ...
thanks x
these moments spent together, I came home full of tips, ideas, to have met friends of crosses ...
The date is Oct. 9 for the exchange: "The House of Sicilianuzze ... I can not wait!

Tom Delonge Nautical Star

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In the Middle Ages, the peasants of the small German village could see the castle of the feudal lord wherever they were.
The castle high on the hill, to dominate. The castle so close, too. At night, illuminated by fire. In
them anywhere, for life, between the market and the fields.
with a bent back and his face was sweating under the midday sun or the cool evening between the incomprehensible smell of urine, life comes a time, through a quick thought.

so it's always a thought of fear.
gaze snaps at the top, reflecting, like a clock that was already old by the time.

Basically we just want to feel safe. It does not matter then if the world does not belong to us.
We are always poor smallholder farmers of the feud.

(Gößweinstein, Fränkischen Schweiz)