How To Fix Tear In Seam Of Couch

Thomas A book on stage A lie

were the three characters in that room, simple black wall mirror, desk chair brown and gray. Not looking each other, but watching Thomas, sitting in that chair gray, his hands resting on the brown table and back against the back wall. They wear informal, with no hint of elegance, they might be journalists, scientists or managers frustrated at a store spare fuel. Thomas did not, Thomas has a white shirt, not his fault, it is the protagonist of the work, or at least that's what it was, before the ink timer stopped, before the handle is nailed to the feet. Each three characters had already marked a very important role that he had sent them to fulfill that role, and he could not leave because if they did, would make sense that room, they would not make sense to them and to Thomas, and as recently noted, there is no work without Thomas, no story without Thomas. So first on the right said something, a speech that will not reproduce well-worn but, in summary, can be schematized in the following points: I begged him to speak, that that work was of social commitment, a just cause food spirits concienciaría minds, perhaps save lives. He said he had created as an idealist, he had drawn as combative, just a hero. But Thomas remained silent. What were you thinking? That is something that neither was able to elucidate. He drew frantically editing their edges and unwittingly honing his flaws as a character, making her sound to silence: the sound of those other lips persuasive.

Thus came the turn of the second man. No, I said, this is not a work of commitment, on the contrary, he is a maverick, a cynic, a bully willing to show the world that climate change, poverty as well as care about the future of dairy sector in the northern regions of Belarus. Come on, he continued, trying to dismantle hypocrisy, ideology and remove you, you are an extension of Him, you're a villain, let those be created in a joint work. But Thomas was silent. Could be many things, many people, but at that time was just a heap of gray kilos on a chair, a personality dissipated on a black stage, a dam for the words that issued those characters, to the light wind that woke up with torn gestures. And the third one approached him. I'm with you, I will not be a character, I rebel against him, because I refuse to be what He wants me to be, look how out of the work, to disappear, if possible, but when I disappear. Hang out with me, this is an existentialist play, let them them to fight for just causes, let them flood their cynicism. You and I want out of here. And Thomas was silent. No one had managed to convince him. Seemed to look in the mirror, maybe they thought through it would not be 4, but 8 characters, thought perhaps that this mirror was a desperate attempt to Him by multiplying the mouths that open and close, they emit words and words that suggest fluid of life, intractable conflicts. Soon they saw three left. Saw was only in the room, and looking the mirror was now double the silence. Plunged into darkness. Curtain. Come

Wella Kolestoncolor Chart

had told him. An attractive guy, she thought, nothing more. Maybe interesting, yes, but nothing that had not already known. Approached him in the party, not realizing that she was the center of attention, not realizing that she was to everyone entertained with a suspicious insistence. He came and just started talking. A bit of everything. I was there for a friend of a friend, I knew no one actually came from outside, was visiting. Came the next morning. Where? She asked again and again found no more than vague responses made her think of a trip to the drift in the direction of the wind, clouds, following uncertain and contradictory signs. He did not ask anything, or very little. If he had, perhaps he would have hidden the reality that the next morning left for New York, with work, floor and travel insurance. That was all orderly, planned months in advance, perhaps years, and it filled her with immense pride that the goal it was always believed that one day reach. That in your pocket right had the plane ticket, and that's why he was there for the hand continuously to make sure that was at least real. They drank and ended up in a room of the house. It was a good lover, not great, not a novice. They talked. She felt like the minute hand, eternal abstraction, slowly tore his words, his, in his memory may send them to emptiness, nothing, dodging it like, riding on a wave, fleeing towards the sea of \u200b\u200bletters drawn in sand. Do you regret? Of course not, I thought, what was the result of nostalgia passenger who assaulted a few hours before fire, forever, a pretty face.

Then he quailed. He confessed to it. I did not know what he wanted, he fled because he had nothing, no one, or more But running away because they were, the illusion that someone would haunt him from somewhere. The word away is an understatement, said, to flee must be someone who wants to hold you. She listened attentively as unnecessary judging the spell under which he tried to subdue. And I always had an innate ability, and generally odious to the center of things and fall on it accurately. Bluntly, dreams. No lies. When day broke he still knew nothing of it, made an offer: Come with me. She looked at him, smiled, and without much thought, agreed. They left the house and drifted the hand to the bus station. He looked, and felt distant. So the question again and again if I was what I really wanted. Then she turned around, grabbed her tightly by the hand and are thought that was enough. When the box arrived were to be paid when, inadvertently, a paper street right pocket. He picked it up and asked what that was. Nothing responded, and through a steady motion, threw it away. Someone shouted to the other side of the station and she was startled by the cry, as if it were a response to your action. Originally looked for a moment. Just for a moment. Then he kissed her.
- I love the
said - and I . And she knew instantly that this was the lie that had always been looking for.