Small Recurring Rash On Buttock

Dear friends, it's time to end this blog and leave . I was wrong about many things. I've played to invent a character, that of Zingu, and let come to life and interact with real people online, to provoke and to really know who with another mask could never have known how I wanted to meet you. I do not know if you managed to talk Zingu own voices, or is a victim of the limitations of my imagination and expertise to bring life to a character independent of me. Zingu much of me, or how much of me is in it, just mark my failure as a writer, my weakness for certain issues I wanted to appear for personal brilliance or relief. In any case, has been more valuable my experience as a carrier of this mask, my experience as a creator of it. Wearing it, I had the opportunity to meet and Cristian Maurice. With your comments I have learned something essential about the nature of faith and the Christian spirit, and this has been the most useful that this blog has been for me, having met these people through the challenges or responses that might raise Zingu ... Maurice Christian and never turned their backs on Zingu, never criticized or embarrassed to talk to her, always offered their prayers and their hearts laid bare. No attempt reveal great truths of philosophy or give lectures, did not fall into provocations Zingu. For me, I went full of stereotypes about cures, but also eager to test my prejudices from the comfort and lack of risk of anonymity, has been a joy to see that you could be wrong about many aspects of the fact Catholic. In any case, I leave with much less certainty and many more questions than when they had the day I started this blog, and there's nothing like the pleasure it can accommodate the additional questions in the mind, to replace those answers that we found long ago in our first attempts to explain our place in the world in a moral sense, and today, the day he turned 30, have expired and are no longer avail myself to know where I stand.

No more straws.

Labeled Diagram Of A Snekkar Viking Ship

ADIOS TRAVEL THE FOX



Vengo ground. As never put photos, this time we will give you an image that shocked me. Here's a picture I took with the phone, and I've cut so you do not see us in the mirror. It's a dead fox in a pool in the garden of this house. It's actually more like a small farm ... The guy took me for a walk one morning, as if we were dating, given by the hand, as he likes. Come along and tells me the birds (he knows a lot of birds) "Look, a chatterbox, and that a tit, and I just stared at the ground so as not to stain the shoes. Suddenly I saw that way with soft hairs floating in a puddle on the move with a pole and left the corpse full of expression on his face. Funny how death discovers and exposes new gestures and expressions in one head, even after death. Until the eyes are completely rotten, the face of a dead man always retains the power of sight. This picture is I've been around this bridge in the immediate stage of memory. It is an image that you intend to dominate and lose the fear, to see it for what it is, a dead thing, as animated as the mud and leaves the pond, but in my mind I can never leave to feel something ominous in the expression of that eye and the mouth.

rest I tell you tomorrow, or whenever you can.

What Medicine Says L498

Today I travel with A., the man of whom I spoke in the post titled Awakenings . It's a big step for him ... we're not far away, a place I want to show that he has much sentimental value. It is the people of their grandparents, an almost deserted village where he says there will be about 20 people in winter. He has a mansion in town, but we will not stop there, because he does not know what state is. For years I did not open. The house is apparently very large and as the photos that has taught me has shields on the front, huge doors, thick walls ... The site is depressing. Typical Castilian village, the kind that even the stones radiate a kind of cold and bad feeling that you are staying in the marrow of their bones. I hate the Castilian. I will tell you around on Sunday ... Buff-how long was I going to do

Nitric Oxide Supplement And Anxiety

PRAY

I asked the father Cristian in a comment if I pray. Another commentator, and from an unhealthy curiosity, want to know whether I pray or not. I'm not sure what you mean to pray. If prayer is talking with God, prayer, because my words are lost without answers, God does not answer. If prayer is talking to God, then I do not know if I pray. Maybe sometimes you talk to God, but I have not clear ...

There are things I have written that I do not know who they are. The other day I heard of a book on architecture, which was a strange phenomenon, that of the auction and details hidden to the human eye. An architect insisted on a shot in a dark corner of a room high ceilings, it was impossible to see from the ground. When the builders told him it was absurd that shot, because nobody else would, the architect replied that God does not see it. Juan Díez del Corral Perhaps we can clarify what the book was. In any case, what is certain is that I sometimes find myself trying to transcend, and for someone who I do not know who he is. Poetry helps me to try to glimpse what lies beyond the constraints of language, and perhaps at that moment what I want is the way to talk to God and how God appears in the words I say, they are words inhabited in their conmbinaciones I reveal a higher meaning. I said I was not going to publish my own poems. A Maurice copied him one in his blog, a very religious poem in the background. Perhaps a prayer for me. What I can not use the prayer is always, because I sound like a vacuum, as does the sexton old Verse León Felipe. As I decided to hide under, I copied one of my poems, I hope you do not laugh at me, there is nothing that makes one more vulnerable to the cynical to teach poetry. This poem I wrote many years ago while still living in my country town, and went on weekends to Razorfen we had, where my dog \u200b\u200bwas happy. Now everything is sold, and the dog died, but in those days, when walking alone with him and I was looking at the sky at night, sometimes I felt like God was there. Consider yourselves if this poem is basically a prayer or a wish of God. If it is true that prayer, these are my prayers.

The universe from the head of my dog \u200b\u200b

But if a man Would be alone, let him look at the stars.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars,
but I remember the first time I saw
had not yet invented the hours, weeks
had not appointed day
not even know the weather turns on itself and starts
without us
stops breathing with your lungs
leaving us in stone, air, heat, shrapnel

stars for the next big bang of the universe.

I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars
I've forgotten their names, those with which

baptized when we decide that anything
can be locked in a word
dwell within our bodies.

I sit on the porch,
pat my dog, the two
tired of chasing through the woods
another sun that escapes us, and I see his ears
worry

tighten up and catch an evening breeze
whistling through the holes of the oaks
that skims the
Lunero the orange blossom and pushes through the dark
the croaking of frogs that inhabit
all puddles of the road. Mount

whole is drawn invisibly in the breeze
my dog \u200b\u200bwith his ears
notes.
I however do not see anything, just my memory

me back the memory of what a sun light
morning I wake up.

The little light that the sky is left
is drained by the stars.
Again I raise my eyes to them,
as used for thousands of years,
I wonder if my dog \u200b\u200bsees them,
and then entered his mind to watch the stars


came into his eyes and in that instant the universe is released
words
of ideas,
dimensions,
of
magnitudes that we
compressed to fit on our minds.
Mystery
becomes infinite and I can not see the stars.