German Checkered Tablecloths

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

scrivere_quattro

(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.

Parotid Gland Headaches

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!

Surgeon Xmas Hints Iphone

scrivere_pulp

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.