Cubefield That You Can Post To Facebook

A slam

That was not how they act, or so she thought at least. Clearly wary of their suspicion was, at least, a routine protocol to be crossed every time I looked at that letter, resting on the table, breathing in his words, the ink pulsing through the arteries of paper. Can not be said to Mercedes, he does not. But reread and reread and was faced with the evidence that those words, which scraped the edge of the sheet as if about to dispose of their eyes, belonged to him, they were all for it known, and he described to him, with that convoluted inconsistency with which they tend to unite, inextricably, phrases and lyrics universal, people and moments. I do not want to see, Mercedes, no place for him. If you had known him ... And then looked down, and she knew her friend, Ellen, would be ready to flee perpetually man she loved. The always said daughter, you rebel against things more than the hair that God has given grace rebelled against thee. So one morning, she knocked on his door and said goodbye, went, where? I do not know, said, further, where we can not reunite. On your desktop, left two porcelain figurines, a legacy of the former tenant of the flat and she quickly hid in a drawer because they always hated the porcelain, the letter, opened as a small tablecloth on which she breadcrumbs off as forming a cartilage tears mingled blood clot, and finally, a small, safe fork in her hair.

The second slow in coming three months. This time the envelope was blue, dark blue sea Elena looked at him in front of her, and thought the resemblance was no accident, so before opening the envelope, a gesture, perhaps negligible, but the gesture after all, was drawn on his face: it was that he hated, perhaps because it did not belong and trying to grab it, it trickled between his fingers as they slip the memories of others. not even have to be certain is to come told Javier, his only human contact since I got there. He remembered when he, a night like any other if not because it was that night, walked out the front door while she's Elena then, recalled with nostalgia the crunch of the lock, a few hours earlier, had led a discussion about whose turn it was greased on this occasion. On it then hung the final crunch, and felt that familiar sound that had accompanied them both for years, had been without them knowing it, the sound of his farewell. Javier woke up one day and, in the direction of Elena's house, found the door open, a letter on the table, and she surreptitiously placed a fork. And without knowing why, felt as if the apartment had been filled with snow-white, as empty as the hollow space that drew the absence of Elena on that ground, that table, those misplaced books, empty space to chart forever and in his footsteps and the fleeting footsteps of her, so faint, so light, which appear to even dreamed of by the snow in a period of entrevela.

was installed on the other coast, after an endless journey exhausted his strength. This time, he thought, he suffered from my inability to stop him. I saw him at the door, watching me, and I cried, I cried so hard that tears sewed my mouth. Then I said goodbye. And now again, perhaps to test me again. She kept forgetting to add but this city never find achieved. Buffing your mailbox on Sunday morning, began to live the slow pace which imposed the place, which breaks followed and memories, appeared at the periphery, in that small space of your memory with this boundary, as a timid overcoming space dock Elena had come between them. not be so simple, so simple will not be made each morning while, as if it were a nice neglect, deposited their clothes pins in each café where he sat, patiently, to wait.

Angle Cutain Rods90 Degree Angle

any page I opened the book and there they were, everywhere, my words and thoughts. I swear it was by mistake that was not the novel I was looking for but still, I got my hands in a way that I would like to celebrate as genuine, but, in fact, strictly adheres to the mechanisms that carry a regular book shelf somewhere any anyone, at any coat pocket, mine in this case. I walked down the street when approached by a young blonde to ask the time, to which I gently replied that the three in the afternoon. He then invited me for coffee because it was new in town, had no friends, and their free time just so stuffed solitary walks through these sidewalks that now, as a corner, had made steps to converge their handles my watch. And to close the triangle, the vertex missing her and join us me, for the third existed previously, as witnessed by my wrist without my knowing. So, seeking harmony of our edges, we sat on a terrace a few meters from us. Sew common places for a while, until, suddenly, his words were reaped by the strict cluster which were confined, and began to refer to strange events that had her as a protagonist. He talked about books. But no, patience is not the place makes an appearance that novel I wrote in one hand and someone thought through me and, to my shame, I gained the most ordinary way imaginable. The girl, named Amanda, told me he read a few things that led him to enter, voluntarily, to a certain sect of religious field, of course that's not really important issue, the crux of the matter, which is rather in the person of that time was her boyfriend, Andrew, a tough guy. I do not mean this to imply that what he told me it was a case of abuse, much less, being rude does not necessarily mean spending hours in a bar, police work, or talk about the freedom of women as an unfortunate event postmodern . It was simply a tough guy, the kind that one sees on the street and think, look, a really tough guy. In addition, Nor was the reason his toughness that made her painfully twisting (what other word could describe the act of twisting?) their confessions. So I listened, attentive, and I felt like her words ran down my body and ended up spread, as does the urine on a tiled floor and pink-flowered form, plowing straight lines that separated me of it until suddenly corralled into their foul odor. We got up and kindly offered to accompany me home, because that was where I wanted to go, as I said, somewhat startled, once the third coffee. Understand their fear, those were things that instill terror to anyone. Thus we arrive at the portal, or your street corner, or the tile in his neighborhood became her neighborhood and not in the next, when something happened undoubtedly exceptional. The truth is I never thought that this could happen to me. And it all happened in the bookstore was in front of us, not that in which I acquired, so vulgar, the book that I rise to speak here, but one that specialized in issues of lodges and other necessities to walk sectarian at home. It was not really in the very library where it happened, but face it, that it might be also against the portal next to it (say, between the two, at a distance similar to that separated them, forming, yes, you guessed it, another triangle that I, I and my watch, we were back vertex), by which I mean that the presence of the store was merely circumstantial, and not related to the facts. Is ruled out, therefore, the idea that they actively intervene or decisive - except by pure chance, uncontrollable for me, janitors, librarians, bohemians, counters and light gas, and postal workers. The truth is that little could be done. It happens sometimes that fear takes hold of one, are moments that are facing eyes, elusive, those who barely remember details, slippery because once they are caught by hand come alive, others. However, it is mysteriously in those moments that are not ours, in which one is always better portrayed. That was one of them. So I finally got out of there (here we use the word as a metaphor out of the situation: as I said everything went on the street). I ran. I hid in an antique shop located 4 blocks ahead. Of course the clerk, an old man probably looked puzzled. And there was a nice book (had a lovely Blue Ridge, Blue like an ocean seen from a plane at an altitude of 10,000 feet at noon on a clear day in August). I went and ojee. Of course not buy it. He had come loose. Safe. Was safe. At last. Yes, when I looked and saw how late it was. I left the store.