Mv42v1 3 Sound Driver

Writing Notes is back NO TITLE

derivative text here , not necessarily an answer, only a derivation, giving off a road that intersects and is an utterly cornered

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*** I'm also intrigued by the exile. That non-belonging that I am constantly present with consequences antonyms: bring me to the absence to begin to live after geographies that have nothing to do with the "geo" but rather with the "graphs", ie the time exile -space, the absence of the plane x / y, the abandonment of reality, the income of another order, access to some sort of backflow of clear thinking and abstract understanding.

Everyone happens, I think. ***

When I was 9 years I stayed up late wondering what was the fucking universe. Then came the day after the primary co-lost names like Jose Luis and Violeta and play it as it was debated in these programs Nino Canun debates that lasted until dawn on Channel 2. That was when I could suggest that the aliens did exist but we could not see, what we ensured that we had not been already with someone?, Or explained, with that certain language of the age, that the universe was empty, or whether could not handle or understand at all because it is not something but nothing , then all the inhabitants of the universe different races because we were twinned with the total vacuum, just as we, the human race, we needed to understand the properties vacuum if we wanted to go further and further understanding of reality. Sure

express these ideas after the game ended and then we started to play other games such as small road or riddles or to make the filling of frutsis (all types of roles) to be our simile of ball to play soccer departure, however I felt a great satisfaction able to share these thoughts at night with them, playmates (always need one), co-generation, friends to oblivion. ***

That being outsider personality gave me several years.

But I left the good communication, that you are looking for partners rather than fans, otherness rather than specialization. ***

I'm also intrigued when suddenly life Borges know aleph, a dream resort, to be represented on stage.

That's when the blood and water become the same metaphor: life is a constant reminder of another.

That's when life makes sense, constantly makes sense: life is projected wide and full of light on the desires for the future in the present environment in memory that acts on a whim.

life is projected.

Ever dreamed of someone who, for whatever reason is no longer?
you ever loved a stranger for the sole reason to see him pass in front of you?
Have you ever kissed and felt at once how the same body + will be integrated, forming, generating?
Have you ever missed someone who is away? Ever
have you smiled at someone on the slightest provocation? Ever
ever stopped to feel how people spend in front of your eyes and feel happy and complete for it? Ever
alliance sense, re-marriage, complicity in an exchange of looks?
It does not matter if a child, a girl, an old or a dog, the reunion takes always the same no matter the medium in which manifests.

***

heard in the distance a Colombian cumbia.
imagine if someone is dancing. Imagine how many have
the dance now.
see out the window hoping that the wind is dancing to trees with the clouds.
think why there is always fucking trees and clouds ("Does that mean something important?").

Life marks his pulse.

I do not think that the universe is inexplicable. Rather
think it's anything.
Nimia, minimal, no-thing.
A minor act compared with the more immediate mystery:
everyday life, all life
,
ie
the continuous mechanism of life,
the continuing phenomenon that is life:
"life is all lives, "wrote a nineteenth-century English poet,
really no separation, is exercised
magnanimous life from cell to the galaxy, is exerted
eternal
a disturbingly spectrum unit.

Oh, I love both the adverbs. ***

Today I have 27 years: 3 times 9.
Today I have 27 years: 2 +7 = 9.
always thought that at 27 my first child born.

0. Life is projected in the smoke of incense that accompanied me as I write:
1. The fire gives birth (combustion (spark (the female-male gathering))).
2. There goes a way up.
3. It integrates with the sky (the air (atmosphere)).
4. Ash is the waste of road traveled.
5. Still present, sometimes leaving the smell of incense, some of jasmine, lavender others.

My 4 year old daughter playing with fire. She asks me to pledge that matches to blow the birthday candles (did not long ago on a truffle cake and amaretto). The kitchen is dark. It is midnight. Waning moon. And heaven, God, heaven shines as does the blood and water when spread life.

Today I have 27 years in exile and I feel more than ever. The difference is that I care fuck uun countries, cultures, titles, gender. I am in exile, in an exodus that leads me to the harmony, I joined a suspicion of the uniqueness, the encounter with the original flame, to the constant fluctuation of life does not end even when the body of Alberto Espejo ash fall any day now after so much walking on foot.

dies at 72.

Hopefully it in one of his usual long walks through the city. ***

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Dog Scaly Skin Hair Loss Odour

disordered

sometimes I'm out walking aimlessly. Optimally, it has rained for the grass of the parks and gardens through insinuation that aroma that evokes many times better, not necessarily the past, only one time, playing time and homesickness, smoke times and sky with clouds, a time when the important thing is to let take it away: that slight cold feeling, that warm embrace wet urban city in which no more rain.

Although sometimes happens that instead of the rain there is sun, summer or winter night scenes that also has its charm, its own flavor.

When there are sun colors. My Mexico City is reborn from the ashes and is returning to what it has always been: beautiful easy and amazing contrast.

the evening so there are puzzles. Raised the mysteries that give the traveler raw material, after the light window of a house or under those lights in the distance appeared to be a sanatorium (which ended up being a bar), start trying to solve. Smoke. It gets shade. Find alliance prying eyes. Ask no daylight. Until some time out of the street into your home.

But for me the best is the drizzle.

here is not just Edinburgh. How

Madrid would be easier to have it? How

Santiago? How

Montreal?

I do sometimes write stories located in Montreal. I know Montreal. People I know who have been in Montreal after I wrote asking them to let me ask what lived there but I never respond. I suppose they ever will. Although it has been over 10 months of the last time I requested information. Montreal

What is a suspect and a game.

Edith lives in Montreal. Orlando gets a little by chance, a bit of study, as much out of boredom. They meet and begin to build bridges and then I go beyond the rue Sainte-Catherine, the Pointe-aux-Prairies, jazz, the St. Lawrence River, the Brutopia, the Hochelaga Archipelago, the Île des Soeurs, Île Bizard, Île Sainte-Hélène, the Biosphere interactive museum, I go beyond all those places and not fictitious, invisible and unknown and no, I know mine because they know Edith and Orlando's own, I know as much as the photographs themselves from google images I may.

I do not know if he wanted to travel to Montreal.

prefer Paradise (Tabasco). Prefiero La Paz (Baja California). I prefer any Latin American city. Some not so famous Honduras. And then the Ecuadorian. End in Bolivia. In the ports of Chile. And then my brothers who now reside in Paris invited me alone with the firm intention of giving up in Lisbon.

raining. In Montreal it rains and gets Edith Amoureuse, Claude Bolling piece that reminds me of it (ie I do recall it, form it makes me). But she gets to remind Orlando, the evening she met him at Promenade Bellerive. She prepares a sandwich. She puts on perfume. Has been going to the movies with a friend at 8. Leaving the film will have stopped raining and the street will remain moist. The gardens lay off wet grass smell. Confused memories are intermingled.