Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Upscale Shoe Boutiques

you slap me take you home?




A girl without a shadow had been seen at night in the parking bay Trentova. Biagio was not alone, the woman next to him was a married, had gone there to apartments a bit ': it was the interview of an August night between strangers met by chance in a bar. She still had to pull down her skirt wrinkled and he buttoned the flap of his trousers, and ended with a cigarette while driving, had visto chiaramente scomparire la bambina davanti ai loro occhi. Si era dissolta nella luce dei fari appena accesi.

La retromarcia era stata veloce, velocissima ed una nuvola di terra e sabbia aveva ricoperto la macchina che tornava da dove era arrivata, imponendo la chiusura dei finestrini ai viaggiatori.



La radio era accesa e, d’un tratto, una voce aggiornava il notiziario locale sulle ultime novità sul fantasma di Trentova.



Il comunicato parlava di registrazioni notturne e di un pianto.



Biagio non era a conoscenza di quella notizia e, dopo averne atteso la end with a sudden gesture, turned off the radio.



parked the car. The woman looked at him in silence.



He stared for a moment.



A faint hissing sound was heard. Came from the back seat, looking like a sigh. One of those sighs that children do when they pull up his nose, while they cry.



Biagio wanted to turn around: he felt a dip in the blood.



The woman put her hand on the door and tried to move a handle and pulled.



The shutter did not open the car: the door was locked.



He tried to open his hand and nothing: you could not get out.



He put in the car and began to run.



was heading fast towards the barracks. At the crossroads, tried to swerve, but the car felt driven and ran even faster.



Biagio wanted to approach, but the car did not respond to commands, then tried to turn it off, without success.



The car sped into the night and left the center town and taking the old road, went up Torchiara.



A series of curves of the car was swallowed up in the race.



Biagio turned on the radio: his hands were sticky and sweaty.



There was pop music.



Then there was a noise like interference, a whisper ... whisper ... crying.



He turned off the radio, pressing on the keys like a madman: the plants continue to come out from the speakers.



The car sped into the night and passed Cemetery Prignano, the center of a circle with Sant'Antuono and take the road towards San Martino.



Biagio reached for the woman who was sitting beside him.



She was cold, cold.



He tried to portray his hand, but she stopped and held.



Biagio entrargli felt his fingernails in the flesh.



looked at her and then abandoning the wheel, turned around and saw that she was pale and her hair disheveled.



In the face there were no pupils.



The car swerved again heading towards Rocca Cilento.



wheels scoured in an infernal noise.



Biagio breathed no more: she continued to claw his hand and crying was now more "human" and was clearly a presence behind them on the seats.



Biagio tried to look in the rearview mirror and saw something dark, maybe a face, yes, it was the face of the girl and her eyes were bright red.



brakes began to screech asphalt and the machine froze.



was in front of the cemetery of Rocca Cilento.



The woman opened the door and went down, then brought down the little girl from the back seat and took her in his arms.



Biagio started the car.



The woman and the girl went up the avenue of the cemetery.



The two doors were still wide open, the car was already in motion.



The race resumed.



Biagio had just time to see the parapet and was breaking into the ravine.



© 2007 Milena Esposito

















Sunday, November 4, 2007

Herbal Poultice For Skin Infection

NEW YEAR ... WITH MURDER IN CILENTO!


A Rocca Cilento (SA)

The Cultural Association "ART AND THE" presents the event: NEW YEAR IN

CILENTO ... WITH CRIME!

"Demons in Polmerran"

Text by Milena Esposito

live music by Gian Luca Nigro

Change connotations - Bars - Interactive Entertainment - New Year Gala Dinner - Live music - 2 nights with B & B

cost of the entire pacchetto:

295,00 euro a persona

580,00 euro a coppia (290.00 € a pers.)

1.140,00 euro per gruppi di quattro persone (285.00 € a pers.)

1.680,00 euro per gruppi di sei persone (280.00 € a pers.)

2.200,00 euro per gruppi di otto persone (275.00 € a pers.)

2.700,00 euro per gruppi di dieci people (€ 270.00 / pers.)

€ 3180.00 for groups of twelve people (€ 265.00 / pers.)

€ 3900.00 for groups fifteen people (€ 260.00 / pers.)

  • Participation is permitted for members with membership card "Art and Party" : the card can be purchased directly When booking at a cost of € 5.00 and valid for one year from purchase.
  • only members may participate with more than 15 years of age.
  • For members already in possession of the card "Art Party" is a discount of 10% on the price per person.

Reservations required by November 21, 2007 0974 Tel

823315-3891119808

arteparte@hotmail.it

http://arteparte.blog.tiscali.it /

PROGRAM:

Monday, December 31:

from 16:00 to 17:00

arrival at B & B

from 16:30

Change connotations: makeup, wigs and hairstyles and accessories

at 19:00

aperitif

by 21:00 to 23:00
interactive show, dinner and break to write the final report

from 23:00 to 23:30
epilogue and awards

from 23:30 onwards

celebrations waiting for the New Year with them b & b accommodation

Tuesday January 1:

breakfast, free stay, bed and breakfast

Limited. We recommend booking as soon as


For more information:

It 's the new year of 1929, which coincides with the birthday of Molly Richard.

On the west coast of Cornwall, Polmerran, five people were in the villa of Sir Arthur Clode winter, as well as he, in fact, there were: Molly Richard, Gladys Clement, Lawrence West, Estelle and Larimer Griselda Hill.

that night is something incredible happened: Molly Richard died poisoned. Some digital leaves were harvested along with the sage, and during the dinner was served salmon stuffed with those herbs. Everyone felt bad, but Miss Molly Richard and even death.

poisoning digital!


You will be the protagonists of the case presented in yellow, you are the alleged heinous murderers or your intuition is up to the detectives to question suspects, examine clues, make accusations and solve the case!

not lose your head!


For an evening of yellow, dressed in the clothes investigator or the suspect with wigs, hats, makeup and accessories: " to change the features to us!" : Marika, hairdresser and makeup expert, will take care of your head.

The text is set in the late '20s. Recommended but not mandatory, so remember to dress in clothing of that period.

does not take much: maybe an elegant suit, suspenders, gloves, mouthpiece, feathered shawl or bow your head ... but we'll do and with the help of Marika you "adapted for the party!" .

You must book by November 21, 2007.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Ebay.de Littlest Pet Shop

Snow.


Laura speaks. In a flash before my eyes, you open the gray of a newspaper page. The roar of the paper is crumpled rubs, it seems the wind: the photos that do not want to get away from my eyes and the rolling silent echo of the words are engraved in me.

They come from far away.

Black and White. Eco. Stretch the words on paper, that squeaks under your hands.

life takes away the colors ... white and black and deafen remain silent.

she says. We are almost in the dark and we are sitting on the ground, feel the cold in the ass in his pants. Listening. Were his first words to reopen the newspaper that now flutters over the heads. Inside the mine, I feel like beating you to scare puppies who pee everywhere.

"nell''80 \u200b\u200bIn Naples, there was snow."

If only he knew Laura cosa sto pensando.

“Avevo cinque anni e non avevo mai visto la neve!”

Un brivido mi scuote la schiena e la pelle s’inturgidisce sul mio petto.

Ma Laura non lo può sapere…aveva cinque anni e c’era la neve.

La neve copre i colori.

Laura cambia il tono della voice, now has five years really.

"I had never seen anything so beautiful: snow! It was soft and white was great and I could play. "

I see her run on the mantle of cotton wool and tumble and run and play and scream.

see her? Hear.

" had covered everything. The snow. I started to make snowballs and then again and again until I realized that they would loose all. Then my hands began to make a ball much better the other: a round ball as the world, a magic ball as soap bubbles. A ball is white and soft, I could keep forever. Forever. Forever. "

The expression on his face changes: widening a smile and eyes seem oblique pins.

" It seemed to me the greatest discovery of the world and I dragged a chair to the fridge and I climbed to open the freezer: my ball was safe now."

I feel freezer door slamming ... and boom!

Between breaks suo parlare riascolto il metallo della voce che mi feriva dalla televisione, rivedo la neve…Pertini, le cosce dei morti che sbucano dalle coperte e non so se le immagini fossero in bianco e nero o a colori: c’era la neve. Sopra ogni cosa. Sopra i container e sulle baracche e sulle case spaccate. E c’era una tenda di una cucina che rimaneva appesa al balcone, ma non c’era più la cucina e non c’era più la casa e non c’era…c’era la neve.

I fiori sopra quel balcone sono appassiti e bruciati dal gelo: è la foto, la foto senza i colori dei fiori, la foto in bianco e nero sbiadita tra il piombo del giornale e le mie dita macchiate di nero, le mie dita bianche.

Laura continua il suo racconto. Alle sue spalle c’è una lampada rotonda come una palla di neve. La luce viene dal basso ed è calda, pare una stufa alogena.

Vorrei allungare le mie braccia per sentire il caldo sul nudo delle mani, ma resto ferma nelle sue parole.

Le dice di un fiato. Poi resta in silenzio. Risento la neve.

Il silenzio della neve è diverso…

La luce che vedo è quella di un neon. Un uomo apre il freezer. Plok! Prende la palla di neve e la fa scongelare sul lavello d’acciaio.

Gocciola.

Davanti agli occhi di Laura, la palla diventa acqua, diventa nulla.

“Ne ho sofferto tanto.”

Laura termina il suo racconto: “Quell’uomo era mio padre!”

“Papà!...la neve non c’è più…papà…”

Gocciola.

Me la ricordo quella neve: era sporca di sangue, era la tomba dei morti sepolti, dei morti sepolti sotto la neve, sotto le macerie delle case.

Di quei morti che appestavano le strade squassate dal terremoto.

La neve era sporca…

La neve ha ucciso uomini e uomini e donne e corpi mutilati e informi e bambini nelle culle e nelle braccia prive di vita delle mamme e dei papà, la neve ne ha uccisi più del terremoto.

Vorrei poterlo dire a Laura e forse la consolerebbe un po’…ma non si possono asciugare le lacrime quando sono di neve.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Wards Ap Biology Lab 3 Answers

a glove


Un guanto precipitò da una mano desiderata
a toccare il pavimento del mondo in una pista affollata.
Un gentiluomo, an infidel followed him with his eyes.
and was about to reach it, but already too late,
and was about to reach it, but too late.
the hand was gone and the whole company
and who knows if he ever existed.
that hand was missing and remained
the nostalgia and the glove and his mistress
slipped away and the glove and his mistress skated on.
under a tree without flowers pined love loved.
The glove was a few steps away, unreachable and consumed.
In the great storm of grass, it was not summer, nor spring.
And not even seem to fall but the winter did not exist.
And not even seem to fall because winter is not exist.
When a man from a small boat with a boat hook
saw something whiteness.
A man from a small boat, leaning over the sea:
the glove was in danger of drowning,
the glove was in danger of sinking. It was a triumph of
conghiglie, a floral tribute to the glove
returned to the banality of hearts,
to a beach without sand, a passion
glimpsed a cage without a key to a room without a view, in a cage without
key to a life without sight. Meanwhile
million roses are retracted on the shore.
And who knows if you can understand. What
million roses do not smell if they are not mica
your flowers to bloom,
se i tuoi occhi non mi fanno più dormire.


Era la notte di quel brutto giorno, i guanti erano sconfinati,
come l'incubo di un assassino o i desideri dei condannati.
Dietro al guanto maggiore la luna era crescente
e piccoli guanti risalivano la corrente
e piccoli guanti risalivano la corrente.
Fino al Capo dei sogni e alla riva
del letto dell'innocente che dormiva.
Un mostro sconosciuto osservava non osservato
sopra a un tavolo il guanto incriminato
sopra al tavolo un guanto immacolato.


E il guanto fu rapito in una notte d'inchiostro
da quel mistero chiamato amore
da quell'amore che sembrava un mostro.
Inutilmente due nude mani si protesero to restrain him.
The glove had been hidden where nobody can see it, the glove
was already far more than anyone can know.
Besides the ice rink and the passions of a day of celebration
and the waves of the seas.
and triumph in the storm and roses into the foam.
The glove had flown higher than the moon. The glove was flown
lighter than a feather.


addition to action and the place and time provided
and love and his penis.
The gloves had already been laid in that picture where infinite
Psyche and Cupid govern together
where Psyche and Cupid smiling together.

Friday, October 5, 2007

8 Ball Leather Jacket Sale

Strawberry



Corbezzola

La prima impressione che si ha di Corbezzola è quella di una tavolozza di un pittore. Ma una tavolozza servita per dipingere un quadro d’autunno e quindi sporca di giallo, di arancione e di verde marcio o di salvia e di ocra e di dorato e di rosso.

La prima volta ci arrivai che pioveva. La pioggia rendeva tutto diverso.

Il rosso e il giallo erano liquidi. La città appariva sospesa su una coppa d’acqua e lì si rifletteva.

Ogni cosa era il suo doppio e le case a grappoli si potevano rimirare nel bagliore della pozza mai ferma per il cadere delle gocce.

Il ticchettio rendeva tutto allegro e dalle case i più piccoli uscivano utilizzando grandi passerelle a forma di lanceolate foglie.

Tutti i bambini portavano lunghe tuniche a corolla gonfie come palloncini. Scendendo si macchiavano gli abiti vaporosi e bianchi, ricchi di balze e di pizzi.

Sugli usci delle case le mamme restavano a guardare.

Loro erano abbottonate in abiti simili a quelli dei figli, ma di una tinta crema ed avevano il viso rosso e paffuto.

Le mamme di Corbezzola erano famose nel Cilento per l’indulgenza e la dolcezza.

Le case, vi dicevo, erano appese al verde e avevano per malta quel colore rosso-arancio the robes of Buddhist monks.

The plasters were rough, thick-grained double.

whole town of Strawberry covered a huge territory, so that it can establish the capital of the Cilento.

to climb hills and fell into ravines. Solofrone came down to the river, bordered on Cicero is to lead, flanked Fennel, Ogliastro, Inherit.

The city was overflown by large leaves, in fact, I would say that Strawberry was immersed in a forest.

lies along major roads only uphill or upstream.

At that giorno di pioggia lo spettacolo era inusuale.

I bambini, dicevo, scendevano verso l’acqua e lì si rimiravano dalle barche a forma di foglie.

La cosa era che per ogni immagine di bimbo corrispondeva una cosa diversa dal sé.

Questo, certo, può apparire ben strano, ma in realtà era davvero attraente.

Le mamme dall’alto delle loro case, chi alla porta, chi affacciata alla finestra o al balcone, seguivano con attenzione l’immagine riflessa dei propri figli.

Se il bimbo era magro appariva, sì, magro, ma diverso, se era alto poteva restar alto o diventarlo even more, but that image makes the crooked face or eyes, or smile.

then changed the colors in the reflection of those little characters, hair colors ol'iride ol'incarnato eye skin.

One thing was certain: the little ones, like the metamorphosis.

I want to be the case. Repeated the other.

I like this face here! Shouted from the bottom of the mothers and the mothers were smiling.

To look best protruded above the water and approached il viso il più possibile.

Dall’alto le mamme chiacchieravano tra loro beatamente.

Poi, d’improvviso, la pioggia finì.

Le nubi furono spazzate via e…l’arcobaleno fece la sua comparsa.

Allora davvero a Corbezzola si fece festa!

Prima che l’acqua s’asciugasse, ogni bimbo rubò al proprio riflesso la nuova immagine di sè e dalle case le mamme scesero a dorso dell’arcobaleno, ruzzolando con le gambe all’aria e col viso ancora più rosso. Tutti gli uomini tornarono dal bosco portando selvaggina o funghi o fiori.

Ogni casa gialla diventò rossa e le rosse marroni e le marroni caddero dall’alto provocando gran tonfi e gran risate e tutti insieme si misero a pigiar quelle palle brune e ne ricavarono un vino profumato e forte e brindarono, brindarono fino alla notte.

In realtà siccome con la pioggia la città aveva nell’acqua il suo duplicato, le case che s’erano trasformate in vino, non so bene, se proprio per effetto del veder doppio che il vino dà, erano ancora lì, penzolanti nel buio con le luci accese e le porte aperte.

Gli uomini, le donne, i bambini, cantando, risalivano lenti utilizzando le grandi strade.

E le mamme ed i papà portavano a casa i bambini diversi, ma no longer as they are processed by our they grow up.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Does You Need Mirrors On A Moped

MOON AND GNAC Italo Calvino


From the novel "Marcovaldo" by Italo Calvino.
I want to keep it on my blog like flowers in a vase.


The night lasted twenty seconds, and twenty seconds the GNAC. For twenty seconds you could see the blue sky of variegated dark clouds, the golden crescent of the Crescent Moon, highlighted by an impalpable aura, and then the stars that looked over the more pungent thickened their smallness, until the dusting of the Milky Way, everything This hastily written, every detail on which we stopped was something of all that was lost, because twenty seconds and ended immediately began the GNAC. The GNAC
was a part of writing advertising SPAAK COGNAC-facing roof, which was twenty seconds and twenty turned off, and when it was on you could not see anything else. The moon faded and the sky suddenly became uniformly flat black, the stars lost their sparkle, and cats and cats that ten-second launch howled languid love moving towards each other along the eaves and cornices, now, with GNAC, crouched on the roof sleeping upright in glowing neon light.
Overlooking the attic where he lived, the family of Marcovaldo was crossed by opposing currents of thought. There was the night Isolina, who was now a big girl, she was transported to the moonlight, her heart was dying, and to the more muted croak of radio from the lower floors of the building came as the toll of a serenade, was the GNAC and the radio seemed to seize another rhythm, a rhythm
jazz, and Isolina thought of dancing lights and all you poor thing up there alone.
Pietruccio Michelino and stared into the night and let ourselves be overcome by a warm, soft fear of being surrounded by forests full of robbers, then, the GNAC! and snapped with the thumbs and index theory, one against the other: - Hands up! Nimbus are Kid! - Domitilla, mother, go out to each of notte pensava: “Ora i ragazzi bisogna ritirarli, quest’aria può far male. E Isolina affacciata a quest’ora è una cosa che non va!” Ma tutto poi era di nuovo luminoso, elettrico, fuori come dentro, e Domitilla si sentiva come in visita in una casa di riguardo.
Fiordaligi, invece, giovinotto malinconico, vedeva ogni volta che si spegneva il GNAC apparire dentro la voluta del “gi” la finestra appena illuminata d’un abbaino, e dietro il vetro un viso di ragazza color di Luna, color di neon, color di luce nella notte, una bocca ancor quasi da bambina che appena lui le sorrideva si schiudeva impercettibilmente e già pareva aprirsi in un sorriso, quando tutt’un tratto dal buio risaettava out of the ruthless "gi" the GNAC and face losing the edges, was transformed into a light shadow flakes, and mouth girl no longer knew whether he had responded to his sorriso.In midst of this storm of passion, Marcovaldo chased ' teach the children the position of celestial bodies.
- What is the Big Dipper, one two three four and there the helm, that is the Little Dipper, and Polaris marks the north.
- And that, what marks?
- That marks "us". But it has nothing to do with the stars. It is the last letter of the word COGNAC. The stars instead mark the cardinal points. North South East West. The Moon has a hump in the west. Gibbous, Crescent moon. Hump \u200b\u200bto the east, Moonset.
- Dad, then the cognac is flat? The east has the hump!
- not about growing or declining: it is a sign placed there by Spaak.
- And the Moon that the company has made?
- The Moon has not made a firm. It is a satellite, there is always.
- If there forever, because it changes the hump?
- I quarters. He sees only a piece.
- COGNAC Even if they only see one piece.
- Why is the roof of the building Pierbernardi that is higher.
- The higher the moon?
So at every turn on the GNAC, the stars of Marcovaldo going to be confused with land trades and turned a sigh Isolina nell'ansimare of a mambo hummed, and the girl dell'abbaino disappeared into the ring beam and cold, hiding his response Fiordaligi the kiss that had finally had the courage to send her fingertips, and Michelino Filippetto and played with his fists before his face to the strafing aircraft - Ta-ta-ta-ta ... - against the neon, that after twenty seconds was extinguished.
- Ta-ta-ta ... Have you seen my father, who turned it off with a single burst? - Filio said, but already out of the neon light, his fanaticism warrior was gone and his eyes were filled with sleep.
- Maybe! - Said he fled to his father - went to pieces! We'd see the Lion, the Twins ... - The Lion! - Michelin was seized with enthusiasm. - Wait! - He had an idea. He took the sling, the Office of the gravel which always had a reserve in his pocket and fired a hail of stones with all their might against the "GNAC".
He felt the hail fall on the roof tiles littered the front, on the plates of the gutter, the clink of glasses of a window, hit, beat the gong of a pebble down the bowl of a lantern, a voice in the street. But the message light on your time off the shot he had at the end of his twenty secondi.E all in the attic began to mentally count: one two three, ten eleven to twenty. They counted nineteen, drew his breath, counted twenty, twenty-one twenty-two counted for fear that he had counted too fast, but no, nothing, "GNAC" does not restore power, remained a black braided decipherable scrawl evil to his castle of support as the vine the pergola.
- Aaah! - Cried all the hood of infinitely starry sky got up on them.
Marcovaldo, stopped to slap the raised hand that he wanted to give to Michelin, he felt as projected into space. The darkness that now reigns at the roof was like a dark barrier that excluded the world where there were still whirling hieroglyphs yellow, green and red traffic lights and twinkling eyes, and bright sail empty trams, cars and invisible push ahead the cone of light of the lanterns. From this world did not rise above that widespread phosphorescence, wanders like a smoke. And to raise our eyes no longer dazzled, it opened the prospect of space, the constellations dilated in depth, the dome rotated in every direction, the sphere that contains everything and does not contain any limit, and only one of its vacant plot, as a breach, opened to Venus, for make it stand alone, above the frame of the earth, with its firm stab of light exploded and concentrated in one spot. Suspended in the sky, the new moon rather than flaunt the appearance abstract Crescent revealed its nature as a sphere around the mat bias and illuminated rays of the sun from the earth lost, but while retaining - as can be seen only on certain nights of the first summer - the warm color.
Marcovaldo And look at that cut across narrow side of the moon between shadows and light, felt a longing to reach as miraculously remained a sunny beach in the night. So she stood by the attic, the children frightened by the enormous consequences of their act, as Isolina kidnapped in estasi, Fiordaligi che unico tra tutti scorgeva il fioco abbaino illuminato e finalmente il sorriso Lunare della ragazza. La mamma si riscosse: – Su, su, è notte, cosa fate affaticati? Vi prenderete un malanno, sotto questo chiaro di Luna! Michelino puntò la fionda in alto. – E io spengo la Luna! – Fu acciuffato e messo a letto.
Così per il resto di quella e per tutta la notte dopo, la scritta luminosa sul tetto di fronte diceva solo “SPAAK-CO” e della mansarda di Marcovaldo si vedeva il firmamento. Fiordaligi e la ragazza Lunare si mandavano baci sulle dita, e forse parlandosi alla muta sarebbero riusciti a fissare un appuntamento.
Ma la mattina del secondo giorno, sul tetto, tra i castelli stood out in neon slim slender figures of two electricians in overalls, who checked the tubes and wires. With the air of the old men who provide the local weather, Marcovaldo put his nose out and said
- Tonight will be another night of "GNAC".
Someone knocked on the attic. Opened. He was a man with glasses. - Excuse,
I could look from their window? Thank you, - and introduced himself:
- Dr. Godifredo, advertising agent
light.
"We're ruined! They want us to pay damages, "thought Marcovaldo and already ate with the children's eyes, oblivious of his astronomical abductions. "Now look at the window and realized that the stones may not have been drawn to this place." He tried to get my hands on: - You know, I'm young, so they pull, the sparrows, stones do not know I never went to fail the written Spaak. But I punished them, eh, if I punished them! And you can be sure that does not happen again.
Dr. Godifredo made a careful face.
- Actually I work for the "Cognac Tomawak," not the "Spaak". I came to study the possibility of a warranty claim on this bright roof. But tell me, tell me the same, I'm interested.
Marcovaldo Thus, half an hour later, concluded a contract with the "Cognac Tomawak, the main competitor of" Spaak ". The children had to pull the sling against GNAC each time the writing was reactivated.
- should be the straw that breaks the camel's back - the doctor said Godifredo.
was not mistaken: already on the brink of bankruptcy due to strong advertising expenses incurred, the "Spaak" saw the continued failure of its most beautiful light réclame as a bad omen. The message said that now
COGAC hours Conac hours CONC spread the idea among the creditors of a bankruptcy, at some point, the advertising agency refused to make any other repairs unless the arrears were paid; had written off the growing alarm among the creditors, the "Spaak" failed. In the sky
Marcovaldo tondeggiava the full moon in all its glory. It was the last quarter, when the electricians came back ramp on the roof opposite. And that night in letters of fire, and characters which are twice as thick as before, we read TOMAWAK COGNAC, COGNAC TOMAWAK, COGNAC TOMAWAK that light up and off every two seconds. The hardest hit of all was Fiordaligi; the garret of the Moon girl had disappeared behind a huge, impenetrable "vu" double.

Monday, September 24, 2007

How Much To Register A Horse Float

Baccanaglia




Is there anything else in the world of perfect like a bunch of grapes?

If you look carefully, watching the grains of golden-yellow flesh and blue violet, lighter or darker, large or small, round, or even long, dull, or more often, as clear as the eggs of a snake, who had the good fortune Baccanaglia to see, like me, can not help but have it return in mind. But where

Baccanaglia, a city in the shape of a bunch of grapes?

However, she was in the Cilento, all towns in the chimeras.

Baccanaglia was, in fact, lying on the coastal area between Agropoli, Castellabate, Tresino and down out to the sea.

soon as you arrive, just the smell Grape reached the traveler, who happened to follow a single path winding and yielding as a series of lifts from the ground.
Viaducts incredible, absurd, flyovers, footbridges senseless, rambling casings acrobat followed one another, forming a single road twisted and strung, into receiving many other equally skewed.
left and right, up and down the steps, there was a carousel of spheres: the houses, churches, schools or shops, taverns and craftsmen then, numerous taverns were in a succession of balls and bowls.
Tavern by funny names, fragrant inns, inn, clean and tidy, and smelling cellars bottiglierie new or old, dusty or neat, they were everywhere.
The noise of clinking glasses, flasks, bottles and BOTTLE, carboys and bottles of uncorked just reached, at times, deafening tones. Among the Cincin
Plok explosives and bottles of far-fetched, the happy days spent in Baccanaglia.

Many items that were there, you could get cheap purchase stock in a good mood.
Jugs of colored glass, flask-shaped bum, jugs of all sizes, fine crystal decanters or more raw materials, ceramic or porcelain teapots, cups personalized with text and decorations in various colors and glasses and mugs engraved or hand-worked silver and pints or pewter and earthenware jars and jars of every shape and color as they were exposed together with berries of grapes and wine red or white or pink or gray, cold or cellar, dry, sparkling or bubbly and sweet.

There was no person who went to Baccanaglia without buying at least a grain or a grain or any small cup that somehow it would lay in her mind the sweet memories.

the main road and away from the bazaars, you could take the smaller roads, narrow and cramped. These branched two or three were ever raised from the ground and leads us straight, in their convoluted, the doors or gates, and Then there were leafy squares and soft, velvety, broad and had the shape of palms outstretched. There used to get children to play with balls similar to ball, but more transparent, sometimes wrapped in thin shells exploded, and soon, all the children ran from everywhere to lick and suck the sweet juice that flowed.

There was also another good fun Baccanaglia: it was the slide!
Just outside the town, down to the sea, the slip appeared as a beautiful tangle of thick green and pliable curls looked like a set of locks of hair, soft, elastic as springs and swaying to the point that even a slight hint of wind was enough to make him move.
Thus, the older kids would gather there and dive into the void were real, and those meeting the more reckless they launched waves of the stormy sea or from the winter wind and stayed - for hours - to hang in the air and go on and down, attached to the slide.
Those dives into space flight knew: I remember well.

The finest hour in Baccanaglia was, however, that the sunset from the sea, the sun shone down with the ball.
The light was coming in and sparkle round houses made of shiny flesh and sweet sauces: everything became transparent like a light bulb, and everything inside was visible outside, just as happens in dreams before waking, then, gradually, the sun's light was extinguished in the sea like little fairy lights and a nativity scene, Baccanaglia lit, and the eyes of those who watched were lost in a succession of one thousand globes of light, supported by amazing bridges between sky and sea.

In those orbs there was life.

Every move into the houses or churches or taverns was visible. Those who had none should, could spend hours looking at this or that: to observe the shadow of beautiful women, who, inks, bathe or shower - straight - arching their backs, or watching the families gathered at the table for dinner or much more that I'm not here to enumerate. Through
thin walls, tight, translucent, dome every gesture became a show and maybe it was this, that, there, there were no movies or theater or the circus. The people of

Baccanaglia had no shame to perform and so were the shows, every time, different, exciting or discounted new or repetitive, good or bad, love or violence, but always real, so real and still fascinating.

How many things could be seen at night Baccanaglia!

In the silence of the darkness lit by many lights, the ball seemed to just hanging lanterns in the darkness, and each of them, the small images glimpsed inside gave life to shows surprising.
The eye, like a kaleidoscope, passing, jumping from one world to another and could be built by putting together different stories and fascinating lives of the people without shame.
It was not uncommon to see the body of their beloved in the arms of a man other than themselves or noticing thefts and robberies in their own home or that altruism: a Baccanaglia was visible all night and everything was possible. It seemed that this day and night so it was that Miss coli and the sun seemed different from what was in the dark was a fact that did not create scandal, or stupor.


Baccanaglia was not in the substance to be different from other cities, but apparently it was.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Club Glove Burst Proof 2

Bacchanalia Bacchanalia


Is there anything more beautiful than a bunch of grapes?

If you look carefully, watching the grains of golden-yellow flesh and blue violet, lighter or darker, large or small, round, or even long, dull, or more often clear, as the eggs of a snake, who had the Bacchanalia lucky enough to see, like me, can not help but have it return in mind. But where

Bacchanalia, a city shaped like a bunch of grapes?

However, she was in the Cilento, all towns in the chimeras.

Bacchanalia was, in fact, in the coastal area between Agropoli Castellabate proprio vicino al mare, verso il Tresino.

Appena si arrivava, subito l’odore d’uva raggiungeva il viandante, che si trovava a percorrere un’unica via tortuosa e cedevole come una serie di ponti sollevati dal terreno.
Viadotti incredibili, assurdi cavalcavia, passerelle insensate, sconclusionate intelaiature d’acrobata si susseguivano formando un’unica strada contorta e avviticchiata, che s’immetteva in tante altre altrettanto strambe.
A destra e a manca, sopra e sotto i passaggi, c’era un carosello di sfere: le case, le chiese, le scuole o i negozi, le bettole degli artigiani e poi, numerose, le taverne erano in un rincorrersi di globi e di bocce.
Osterie, trattorie, inns, wineries and bottiglierie were everywhere and the noise of clinking glasses, flasks, bottles and BOTTLE, carboys and bottles of uncorked reached just once in deafening tones. Among the Cincin Plok
and the explosion of bottles fetched, the happy days spent at Bacchanalia.

Many items that were there, you could get cheap purchase stock in a good mood.
pitchers, flasks, mugs, jugs, pots, cups and pints and jars and jars of all shapes and materials and colors were on display along with berries, grapes and wine.
There was no person who went to Bacchanalia without buying at least a grain or a grain or any small cup that somehow it would lay in her mind the sweet memories.
the main road away from the bazaars, streets could go smaller, narrow, narrow, branching two or three that were also raised from the ground and carried straight straight at the doors and gates, and then there were green squares and soft, velvety, broad and had the shape of palms. There used to get children to play with balls similar to ball, but more transparent and small, sometimes wrapped in thin shells exploded, and soon, all the children ran to lick and suck the sweet juice that flowed. There was also a

Another good fun to Bacchanalia: it was the slide!
Just outside of town, the slide was a tangle of curls as curls of hair fall out, soft, elastic and swaying to the point that even a slight breeze was enough to make him move.
Thus, the older kids would gather there and did real racing in a vacuum, those most daring threw themselves against the waves of the stormy sea or the wind in winter and stayed for hours to hang in the air and go up and down, attached to the slide. Those diving into the void
knew of flight.

The finest hour was at Bacchanalia, however, that the sunset on all sides, the sun shone down l’insieme di sfere.
La luce entrava e faceva sfavillare le case rotonde fatte di lucida polpa e di zuccherati sughi: tutto diventava trasparente come una lampadina accesa ed ogni cosa dentro era visibile fuori, proprio come succede ai sogni prima del risveglio, poi, a mano a mano, la luce del sole si spegneva a mare e come piccole lucine di un presepe, Baccanalia si accendeva; e gli occhi di chi l’osservava si perdevano in un susseguirsi di mille globi luminosi sorretti da ponti incredibili tra cielo e mare.
In quei globi c’era la vita.

Per tutti quelli che sono stati almeno una volta a Baccanalia, ciò che resta nell’animo del suo ricordo è il leggero senso di stordimento e di felicità malinconica, that only he knew that place lost in the Cilento donate.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Shaving Pubic Hair Woman Leaves Stubble ?




Bacchanalia

Is there anything more perfect for a bunch of grapes?

If you look carefully, watching the grains of gold or yellow flesh purplish blue, lighter or darker, large or small, round or long, opaque or clear more often, as the snake eggs, those who had the good fortune to see Bacchanalia, like me, can not help but have it return in mind.

But where Bacchanalia, a city shaped like a bunch of grapes?

However, she was in the Cilento, all towns in the chimeras.

Bacchanalia was, in fact, in the coastal area between Agropoli, Castellabate, right next to the sea.

soon as you arrive, just the smell of grapes reach the walker, which was to follow a single path winding and yielding as a series of lifts from the ground.

Viaducts incredible, absurd, flyovers, footbridges foolish casings acrobat followed each other to form one road twisted and strung.

left and right, up and down the steps, there was a carousel of spheres: the houses, churches, schools or shops, taverns and craftsmen then, numerous taverns were a succession globes and bowls.

taverns, inns, wineries and bottiglierie were everywhere and the sound of clinking glasses, of flasks, bottles and BOTTLE of carboys and flasks reached a toast at times deafening tones.

Plok Among the cheers and the explosion of bottles fetched, the happy days spent at Bacchanalia.

the main road you could walk streets smaller, but equally raised from the ground, that leads right straight at the doors and gates, and then there were leafy squares and soft, velvety, wide and had the shape of palms. There used to get children to play with balls like footballs, but more transparent and small, which sometimes exploded, and soon, all the children ran to lick and suck the sweet juice that flowed.

There was also another good fun to Bacchanalia: it was the slide!

Just outside of town, the slide was a tangle of curls as curls of hair fall out, soft, elastic and swaying to the point that even a breath of wind was enough to make him move.

So the biggest gathered there and were real racing in a vacuum, hurled those most reckless against the waves of the stormy sea or the wind in winter and stayed for hours swinging in the air and go up and down, attached to the slide.

The finest hour was at Bacchanalia, however, that the sunset on all sides, the low sun lit up the set of balls.

The light was coming in and sparkle houses made of shiny flesh and sweet sauces: everything takes on the color of gold, everything became transparent like a light bulb, and everything inside was visible outside, just as the dreams before waking, then, gradually, the sun's light was extinguished in the sea like little fairy lights and a nativity scene, Bacchanalia was lit, and the eyes of those who watched were lost in a succession of a thousand globes of light, supported by amazing bridges between sky and sea.

For all those who have been at least once a Bacchanalia, the remainder of memory is the slight feeling of dizziness and melancholy happiness.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Sample Holographic Will Canada

CILENTO WEEKEND ... WITH MURDER! Buzz Light



The tragic spectacular event that Italy has been waiting for: the crime in the belly of Cilento

Cultural Association "Art Party" is pleased to organize, in collaboration with the Club "Dragut" and the B & B "Convent," a dramatic weekend of mystery to be spent in the village of Rocca Cilento Lustra (SA), the National Park Cilento which you can join in October.

Your instincts will carry you to spend a weekend in the prestigious B & B "Convent" in the medieval setting of Rocca Cilento (SA), but, strangely, not everyone is quite as it seems.
In the village, in fact, an ancient and noble house uninhabited, lie the chilling clues to a mysterious murder and the murderer is ... an inexplicable di voi!

Voi sarete i veri protagonisti di un intricato mistero da risolvere in una serata musicale durante una cena cilentana a lume di candela: voi investigherete o sarete i presunti assassini e sospetterete ed interrogherete o sarete interrogati e sospettati. Nell'affascinante cornice di un antico insediamento fortificato, lontani dal mondo, nella malia di un borgo dimenticato, vivrete una straordinaria avventura in prima persona, mettendo alla prova le vostre doti investigative o la vostra bravura recitativa.

Sarete abbastanza bravi?

Quello che possiamo promettervi, con assoluta certezza, è che vi divertirete fino a… morire!


WEEKEND CON DELITTO 6 e 7 OTTOBRE 2007:
or interactive shows with actors of the Theatre and Arts Party ", original screenplay and Milena Esposito on piano music by Gian Luca Nigro
or Welcome drink, dinner, breakfast, lunch or
typical Cilento Accommodation in double room for one night.
Programme:
Saturday:
• Arrival at the village of Rocca Cilento between 18: 00 and 19:30
• Accommodation at the prestigious B & B "Convent"

• Welcome drink • Show starts at former home uninhabited 20 hours: 30
• Dinner with typical Cilento
• Accommodation in a double room at the prestigious B & B "Convent"
Sunday: Breakfast •
to the 'Convent'
about 9:30 am • Visit the village of Rocca Cilento and awards

• Epilogue • Lunch at a typical trattoria Cilento "Dragut"
• Greeting 's Association
• Departure at 16:00 for about
COST WHOLE PACKAGE FOR THE WEEKEND:

95.00 € 180.00 € per person per couple (90.00 € / pers.)
€ 340.00 for groups of four people (85.00 to € pers.)
€ 480.00 for groups of six people (80.00 € / pers.)
€ 600.00 for groups of eight people (75.00 to € pers.)
€ 700.00 for groups of ten people (70.00 € / pers.)
€ 780.00 for groups of twelve people (65.00 € / pers.)
€ 900.00 for groups of fifteen (60.00 € / pers.)

• Participation is permitted for members with membership card "Art Party" means the card can be bought at the time of booking costs 5 € and is valid for one year from purchase. •
only members may participate with more than 15 years of age.

The maximum number to participate is very limited and we recommend booking as soon as possible.
The event has a limited number, at which no reservations could be accepted later.
- Information on how to get to Rocca Cilento (SA):
- Reaching Rocca Cilento is very simple: who will opt for train, plane or ship, will arrive in Naples.
- By car:
- from the north take the highway A3 Salerno - Reggio Calabria, exit Battipaglia, continue on the SS18 and follow signs for Agropoli-Vallo della Lucania, Prignano Cilento exit and follow the signs to reach a crossroad for Rutino Rutino turn right and follow signs for Rocca Cilento.
- Eboli from the South exit, follow the signs to Paestum - Capaccio variant reached the SS18 and follow directions above.
- By train: Line
Napoli - Reggio Calabria Agropoli station stop.

NB: those who arrive by train at the railway station of Agropoli (SA) can book a free shuttle service. For information, write to
arteparte@hotmail.it
B & B The Old Convent http://www.anticoconvento.it/index.htm
To book call the number 0974823315 from 15.30 to 17.00 hours or 3349903646 and then pay a deposit of 50% at the account that will be shown.
The balance must be paid in cash upon arrival.
Once the amount, send an email to arteparte@hotmail.it with the subject "with Murder Weekend October 6 to 7" indicating the names of all i partecipanti e possibilmente anche i loro indirizzi e-mail, in modo da poter essere iscritti alla mailing-list dell'evento e ricevere tutte le informazioni aggiornate ed i primi indizi.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Johnny The Homicidal Maniac Online Free




Ronzare


È che ho voglia di dirtelo senza starci a pensare e di mettere giù le cose. No, anzi, di vomitarle, di farmele uscire dal naso. È che so per certo che non servirà, ma serve a me stavolta, a me.

Non voglio pensare alle parole: non ora, ora devo sfogare questa necessità.

È che so di non capire, di non essere all’altezza, è che so…di non sapere. So che non mi fido.

Ecco! Ma che credi?

I can not trust anymore. Your choice now is done: you will lose out and I will follow you, yes, but with the eyes of the blind, with the passage of the lame.

I do not trust and I will scream: Hey! I no longer trust me ... me ...

I choke in my throat. Do not want to quit. Gasp.
whisper.
I do not trust my senses, these feelings of mud and muddy as the clouds that have blown smoke in my face, eyes, and to cloud my every breath ... and burn ... do not cry, no, I gasped and stopped.
You have driven me like you do with the flies ... and you're right: I keep humming without knowing where to go without a goal, there ... there ... and buzz that I do, but then I do?

What have I done ... what have I done?

I feel, you feel it, eh, do you hear? My words were never more blue.

Useless, useless is following you, reach useless ... useless to look for the words and saying it and push with my whole mouth, tongue and hands and stretch your arms and look for you in one breath and sound that echoes every time you smile. Amaro.

I go down. Cado tugged. Pushed to the ground.
I get up or at least I try.
Brancolo stunned.

... I put my dress without you I saw it when I was wearing ... without looking back and without being able to look ahead, I am qui dentro, nel buio dell’armadio chiuso, accanto al vestito
smesso…smesso…smesso…

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Langerhans Cell Histiocytosis Celiacs Disease




Io adoro il vento caldo.
Lo scirocco, quando gioca con me.
Il vento caldo non si cura di star fermo e tocca.
E scopre e scompiglia ogni cosa.
Salto.
È selvaggio il mio salto…è selvaggio il tuo vento.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Iron Board Closing Mechanism

Castellabate - Federico II di Soave wind between sounds and voices of the Mediterranean




Il posto è bellissimo e la serata è splendida. È una notte di luna piena: è fine agosto, il 27, siamo nel cuore del Cilento a Castellabate, nel cortile interno del Castello Medioevale.
Ad There is a welcome relaxing music and torches to illuminate this starry night. We note with pleasure that there is no stage, the set consists of a bed, two wings and a blue light curtains, white, almost transparent, which moves in the wind.
We stand between the chairs placed in a semicircle to watch the play "Federico II of Gentle Wind" directed by Antonello Santarelli with the Theatre Company and Zeta Manuel Morgan, who also wrote the text.
come to mind the verses of Dante's Paradise:
"That's the light of the great Constance
that the second wind of Soave
begat the third and the last might. "
with reference to the fact that Frederick was il terzo ed ultimo imperatore svevo.
Lo spettacolo si svolge nell’ambito della Manifestazione “Suoni & Voci Mediterranei”, che è giunta alla sua quarta edizione.
La visione è gratuita ed ha l’alto patrocinio del Ministero dei Beni Culturali settore Spettacolo.

Il padrone dello spettacolo, al nostro arrivo, è il vento caldo, che scompiglia i lunghi tendaggi bianchi e, per dispetto, spegne alcune torce. Questo rende tutto suggestivo. Il buio non c’è: è rischiarato dalle stelle, e dalla sfera perfetta di una luna bassa, che di là del perimetro del castello, biancheggia nel cielo, nascondendosi al nostro sguardo.
Al nostro arrivo, verso le 21: 30, there are few people, then gradually, distinguished audience sits silent on the semicircle of chairs.
beginning of the show, shortly after 22:00, the courtyard is full, someone will stand during the show.
In light of the full moon, before the start of the show, we see that there are no microphones on stage and we like that too.
lights, now extinct, two are mounted on high pedestals and their impact on the scene is discreet. To delimit the stage there are candles that the wind off.
The show begins: a young woman, illuminated by white light, invites us to turn off cell phones and to respect the silence as much as possible, because the actors not be amplified.

Incense, candles and clothes monks wander into a darkened stage. The music quality is excellent. The movement, made unclear by the poor lighting, are very attractive.
The show takes its rhythm and stage alternating five players: some play multiple roles, others interpret a single character.
We were expecting a show and witness a historic love story rather classic cut.
The plot of the show tells of the love conflict between Frederick and Bianca Lancia.
According to legend, which was handed down from father Bonaventure Lama and recovery from the historic Pantaleo, during pregnancy, Bianca, Federico la tenne rinchiusa in una torre del castello di Gioia del Colle, perché la credeva adultera. La Principessa non poté resistere all’umiliazione; vinta dal dolore, si tagliò i seni e li inviò all’imperatore su di un vassoio d’argento assieme al neonato. Federico la raggiunse e la trovò moribonda. La donna gli chiese allora di legittimare il figlio, Manfredi, e di sposarla e ciò avvenne in punto di morte.
L’uomo che avrebbe amato Bianca Lancia era Pier delle Vigne.
Una storia a tre: lui, lei, l’altro.
Forse Federico II, lo"Stupor Mundi", avrebbe meritato di più.
Lo spettacolo ci riempie di belle musiche, giochi semplici ed efficaci di luci, ben studiate, che create beautiful images, almost painterly paintings, beautiful voices and live recordings, performed masterfully, give us a nice evening. A big applause goes to the audio-lighting service, whose skill was necessary to the success of the show. The clothes are taken care of, some images are made skilful use of spectral curtains, which become the dominant element of the scene. The wind continues to play with the draperies, making a great service to the success of the show. We expected the beautiful Morgan
a bare back and we have had, as always, this time was well lit and bathed in a basin for the weekly bath Emperor, barely concealed by curtains, the wind raised lenient.
Bravissimo the actor who played the jester, to whom, unfortunately, the time to say goodbye, it was not done with the other name and that was not presented to an attentive and discreet.
Milena Esposito.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Round Ollhouse Windows

Saturnia but


Saturnia at night with a large moving the air and slammed the flickering flame of my torch.
On the chest you open up and then die, after taking my pulse, after it stopped, after removing the space to the moon indecent.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Honda Civic License Plate Frame Brackets

Moleskine

A puff of steam fluttering orange in the sunset.
Two butterflies, back and forth, chasing each other, maintain the same distance going away.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Tiered Skirt Pattern For 2010

go 'and presses? Color


was with the rise of a new horizon that sank the firm idea of \u200b\u200ba world that stood still, without turning into a ball, because then, if you run, the balls are big trouble. Dante had been put on a pedestal and all they could, from below, admire a lot better. This
Stilnovo, then over time was also in vogue with the cubist discos, real landfill ear trumpet of the twentieth century, a real boon to the otolaryngologist, such as low waist pants for urologists. But what resolved the fate of the dermatologists were, above all doubt, tattoos and piercings. If we step back and turn right, then onto the main road, we definitely see that la terra è rotonda, senza accanirci con l’ANAS, che cerca di rendere un servizio che ci va a quel servizio e brucia un po’. Da lì, quando non c’è traffico, si può fare anche la considerazione “eppur si muove”, sempre che la macchina non ci lasci per strada. E che a piedi il mondo ci sembra diverso.
E che alla fine del mondo ci fosse un nuovo continente non è una novità, ma che Bramante, pur bramando, non vi era mai stato, forse fa la differenza, come fa capire chi è veramente sulla rotta delle Indie, anche perché chi l’ha rotta? Se la rotta è rotta, è inutile prendersela col vicino di casa, che magari ha i suoi problemi con Lutero, che inventava un Nuovo Testamento and indeed continued to protest even sending him to hell. But it is a bit 'indulgent indulgences! Then seem to me an excuse these protests.
Some have loans and who is to lend his wife of his friend. Then finish this with this story of friendship! I do not you come and say that there is much difference between the course and the uterus: it's only a matter of addressing the problems in depth. I feel a little 'pressured lately. Maybe it was the Gutenberg press in Nuremberg, but having all those characters and not a single character, with all that happens, it takes character to imprint an indelible mark. Indelible then on paper. Oh yes is easy to say on paper, we need to see in practice. In practice, the period I'm going through, leads me to regard with suspicion a piece of cheese and insistently ask you are neither fish nor fowl, but then who are you?
What I'm going through a period sometimes on foot, sometimes by car or train, I do not get you anywhere. His part as well, that man, Christ, I think it's called Christ, named Pigeon, no, Palumbo, but no ... I have at your fingertips ... ah yes, Cornacchia, Crow Christ. What should have been given the name to America, but instead thought of going to India. To go around the world, if it is just round Ciack, turn! A story of the world. If America had called Cornacchiola Scornacchiati and if all they had invaded the world and broke the balls the entire universe, would have been a different story.
a different story. What then, who invented the phone?
know better what they invented the telephone, which also is ancient history. The new history is not history yet, nor the laws on the books of text, that text did not ever. You do not do text text!
read, study, but we think? To be without press? And I feel much less pressured about how I feel. A life without presses.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Is It Hard To Get Into The French Culinary

talcum powder


When women, the only mothers, go to sleep, must have the courage to stand in the shutters on the dreams of their children. Meanwhile, the fluffy clouds driven by the breeze that blows at night to the land from the sea, go to heaven, silent, different from each other by thousands. The shine from the moon, they become milk and turn into dreams. Wandering ghosts in the sky like the laundry on the rope dropped, forgotten in the night. Ghosts are good: to soothe. The kids, including pillows and blankets, sleeping in a nest prepared by the mother or the person who loves them and with closed eyes you can imagine the silent walk.
For every cloud, it took a billion centuries of work and time was never better spent! A small colored talcum powder appears to Julius, who do not know who is sleeping. One has the donut-shaped and smells of cotton candy and is coming for him, the sweetest child in the country, my son. I see a slender feather-shaped, lying like a mermaid by the sea, shine and brush his hair long and red, beautiful, sees in a dream, a child who is now crying. The cloud is perforated like lace for the little Joseph, the blue cloud to Martina, the little cloud to Stefania and soap bubbles for the children of the baker, everyone is asleep. But I can not wait for the big ones for the moms and dads and the schoolteacher and the doctor to the uncle and the pork and all those who've forgotten to dream. They
with narrow eyes, lying in odd poses and dirty, plugged in the smell of the rooms, the wonderful disdain. In the head are the thoughts of the problems and money and taxes and politics and malice. Even the mothers and fathers, poor dear ... But sometimes, a cloud silver and gold, run by the dream of lighting up the rooms small and vague, and perfuming the air with sugar, cinnamon and caramel powder and talcum powder and also the largest in the morning have a bit of blessed memory of childhood.