Phlegm Taste Like Blood

No Man's Land Waste

* Even before we were either lost
Long before we had gained nothing
Long before clubbed
I already knew everything I * know

I really liked the apartment Malo. Sufficiently large, clear, bright. There existed a serenity between white and blank walls. It was a neutral place, a break in the middle of a dilapidated neighborhood in the middle of my life in tatters. I put my suitcases and I forgot everything.

Malo offered me sometimes to take the air out. I agreed half-heartedly, to please him. My air, it was here that I took it between his scattered affairs, reassured each time I opened my eyes on an object that belonged to him. I was not afraid because each parcel of his living room reminded me that he was there. And even when he was absent, it was enough for me to caress her wardrobe to remember.

Malo's apartment was not a apartment. It was entirely Malo, his party for its brand, which was still, all the time, the tangible side of my love always gone.

What I liked best, in Malo was his window. I could stay there for hours, pretending to watch the narrow street below, or the neighbor's cat lying on the terrace. I pretended, yes, because I did not care much for these shabby streets or neighbor's cat. I was waiting Malo join me, it sticks to my back to become my wings, he kisses me and tell me we could go, while both, we no longer need his apartment for them to love, find themselves, and I no longer have to cling to bed because he would always be by my side, it would be the party for all, all for the game, he would by now his body the architecture and its my hands parentheses.

Malo has never reached the edge of the window.
And every time he slammed the door on my no-man's land, an earthquake shattered my spine and cracking clay that covered my life.

2010 Dog Dies Of Leptospirosis In Dallas

I remember all the details.

The walls were white but on closer look, there, at the joint at the ceiling, you could see that the paint had yellowed. I remember thinking, that perhaps he smoked. There was also a crack in the left corner of the room. It should be long and he had clumsily hidden under a poster of Iron Maiden, but the last of the forks breaking up climbing up there.

What else?

Heaven. Gray. Dark. Late one winter afternoon. He had lousy all day and I saw through the window light falling more and more. He must be eighteen or nineteen hours. And I do not know how long I was there. The clock above the door was no longer working, the big hand stumbled hopelessly against the twelve, as a rough nervous tic.

I still remember the shelf above my head. I saw the books lying horizontally, and I had to concentrate to read the title backwards. Some manga. A classic. Rousseau, I think. A new Henry Miller. I have no a priori, usually, but this time I was surprised.

There was also a light bulb hanging from the end of bare electric son. Bits of tape on a wall. Heavy boxes at the top of the cabinet, crossed a sticker "Fragile". A magazine page, coarsely torn and posted near the window. A nail. Scales. Vacuum.

I remember everything you see. I remember especially his rough skin.

I told them everything, everything. Given all the details, all the information. But they said it would not be enough to stop it.

Who Do Have Black Pople Yellow Eyes

Versus - Rodrigo Garcia

* Small excerpt of a play before leaving for the weekend post-traumatic

* You can fall in love with anyone at anytime. This discredits the romantic idea that we have of love.

is a need he must satisfy, such as thirst.

The task of love is thus twofold: to support himself and the other also but it seems to be more tolerable than live without love.

Love is so important, so necessary, that whatever else. Love excludes the beloved. Love stands out as something abstract, and it does not care who you love.

When you walk in darkness, we cling to the first ray of sunshine came.

When you're Down and Out in, you do not choosy, you go and you find what you mugs.

issue then is to convince themselves: you tell yourself that it's love and the person on whom you fell and you have brought with you is actually a ray of light.

In 90% of cases are discovered in less than 72 hours in fact this person was not really what one might call a "ray of light".

Sometimes you bring back with you people who add yet more darkness to darkness, and they make the darkness so dense that you could take it in your hand, squeeze box, and run.

But as time passed, the lover turns chronic back the person purporting to be the object of his love in ray of light in these moments of despair when we need human companionship. No being

illuminates the life of another, that's how and not make me shit.

It's all lies, because we are afraid of dying alone.

are invented every ray of light is attributed to people vulgar and disgusting, unable to think of anything but themselves, and almost always it is men and women so they are ruthless beasts, merciless with no intention of being.

When I say that, in general, I find myself all alone: there are those who go to the bathroom and never come back, or those who suddenly remember they had an appointment or something to do with their kids.

It's the same when, in moments of fragility, is trusted to strangers.

They disgust me, these people so in need of affection they are engaged in the first stranger passing by and they even manage to betray their loved ones.

They come across a stranger who's playing in a nice bar and they tell him things in their life they should never tell a stranger, and then they invite him to sleep at home, they allow to give advice on private matters, and they end up not entrust the number of their bank account.

Yet everyone should know that during the first fourteen or sixteen hours, everyone is charming, except that after a while the soufflé fall eventually.

Then there they laugh when they read in the press stories of scams kindergarten level. I can not believe that someone could have ripped off with something so obvious, they say. So they just unwrap their lives to cross the first asshole in a bar.

I prefer to deal with that bastard made me shit my whole life in the first stranger one night, drunk or stoned, wants to pass for an honest kind and nice, cultured, interesting.

Better to be plagued by ill familiar rather than explore new malicious and burst of rage or anxiety.

I'm just reading a book about it. It is called I'd rather do it Goya that keeps me close my eyes, rather than any motherfucker.

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Come on baby put out my fire.

* This morning I received the letter which you write
Take care of me and I thank you
That you'll come to me and stuff and we love each other
"And the flowers watered once a week" *

It's over.
I extinguished the fire with bombs tear
who consumed the last fuel
reduced my last ashes to nothing.

I even stopped smoking.
Suddenly, the smell of cigarettes is unbearable
and taste on my lips was like a corpse.

gonna.
I think it will. I have a few hiccups
you, sometimes turning a
address, street or subway
a bed, a hard
turning a command to the Japanese in
low when the salmon sushi is suddenly the taste of you.


I promise you I promise to be good
live my life quietly without never break my cage
to wrap
trouble and wait until
and never expect too great tomorrows.


I promise you I promise to bring myself to
flash in the pan without lightning fires
mathematics
happiness on the cheap, the tactics
I promise to give
to let me do, to be loved
let me touch
and cede my place near the stove.

I promise you everything and anything you want but do
m'étincelle
more if you're afraid of fire and its extent

You have been my last chance
You have been my last Don
You were my incineration.

Myth For Itchy Right Ear

[SPOILER] Krum's Ectoplasm

* But now I feel the thrill of travel, freedom and disgust of reality and everyday life ... I know you know this.
Big, big kisses.
Matthie *

TOUGATI - Krum, I want to heal, I want to heal! What I have experienced so far, it is not called to live. I'm just prepared, I have only projects, no, it is not called to live, it is not called to live. (softly) more I hurt, the more I cling to this miserable existence. Like a fly to his pile of garbage. Lamentable. (weeps softly) What we must not swallow before giving up the ghost! (a time. He stops crying) And outside? It's spring? Obviously! If I'm in the hospital, how is it that it would not spring out?

Krum - It's cold and gray. A time of dog.

TOUGATI - Stop, I can see the sun here.

Krum - The clouds are already covering.

TOUGATI - The number of things I'll lose if I die.

Krum - Nothing.

TOUGATI - Oh, yes, yes!

Krum - You lose nothing, Tougati believe me? Look at us, look at our lives, look at all this time we'll still shoot - what do you lose? " Our neighborhood looks rotten. Our women. Think how we struggle to make money, to get a little something extra, think about our pathetic lives, so that lack of charm, beauty, love, yes, this love that we have not learned to take even when we are given, you forget all our vain turmoil, our endless quest in the night, our eternal hesitations - what do you lose? " But what you lose, Tougati?!

TOUGATI - (his voice becomes increasingly low) I lose, I lose ...

Krum - (begins to shrivel. Shkitt imitates) Look at us, Tougati is what you lose! Voila! That face! That back! These knees! These final upheavals on earth before we find out below! (Krum and Shkitt continues to turn in on themselves. Suddenly Tougati also starting to get into a ball, as if participating in the game of his friends, who, themselves, in response, curl up even more. D a sudden Tougati freezes, inert. Shkitt Krum and stop for a moment, try one or two movements to encourage it, but it does not react) Tougati? (one time) Tougati, you dig? You dig? (one time) Tougati?

Arrive in Schibeugen waterspout and the nurse. The doctor examines Tougati, straightens up, covers his face cloth and turns to Krum.

Krum - (as if defending himself) Do not tell me ... (he tries to steal) Do not tell me ...

SCHIBEUGEN - He's dead. (Krum stops) he died, he passed the responsibility of medicine to that of nothingness. This man is nothing. Years where he grew up, the food he has ingested, the books he read, drugs he has swallowed the dreams that his brain was screened, the amount of work and money spent by those who have paved the way, all, all this investment has been reduced to nil. And if he left something, it too is lost.

Krum - We still have a little laugh.

SCHIBEUGEN - Laugh? That's right, laugh, you lose nothing by waiting! You, too, falling into nothingness.

Between a nurse comes out with the bed of Tougati. The nurse follows. Schibeuge about to exit.

Krum - Dr. (Schibeugen stops) Excuse me, but you talk like a croque-word. You are a doctor. You must leave a hope, maybe not dead, but at least the living.

SCHIBEUGEN - Right. You have a little hope.

Krum - You see.

SCHIBEUGEN - Exhaustion.

Krum - Exhaustion?

SCHIBEUGEN - Yes. It is the small hope that you have left. Exhaustion. What you will heal, eventually, it will be an immeasurable weariness. You get older, you thinning, and with the weakness will rest. Certainly, you have no strength to rejoice, but not not to scream, to protest or to suffer. A gentle serenity will surround you. You will be calm, quiet, just a little stump of fallen life, folded in on itself and orderly. A thick layer of ash overwrite your loves past, present, incomplete, inaccessible, and, anyway, you will be returned to your loneliness. Then slowly, very slowly, without surge or bitterness, you will start dying one day. Nothing will interest you, nor the stirring room, neither God nor hope, nor the meaning to your life. You have just enough strength to look ahead a look closed, a look that is also gradually blur. Until you die. Yes, bet on exhaustion.