How Many Calories Does Vegetable Stir Fry Have

Laurence Skivée

Assuming that photography could or should be used for something, it should be to secure the regular movement of the ordinary, just stop for a moment the flow of the ordinary. Not so much to keep the visual memory that take some fleeting image, positive, sad, ambiguous, sincere or spontaneous. Leaves, on occasion, to shoot photographs.

Art is useless - it even acknowledges that it - is what is said but nothing is probably also true. Photographs by Laurence Skivée helpful to me. I look at them and I do use. I'm not going to explore the world or a universe. I discovered a series of images that look the same holds in its spontaneity, its immediacy. We know there is a thought behind it is understandable given that it appears that appear simple and obvious, naive, that is to say who stands closer to the truth.

These are images taken with an iPhone or a Polaroid that hold my attention especially. I confront my way to see his. I'm thinking, 'Oh, I could not accept such an image. "I add, asking me: 'Why? . Why does one stop on this part of the sky blue? Why else have such a book? Is it because we love the show you want? Is it simply because it's what we're doing: looking at it, read it? The photograph is not used to remember. Photography is what we decide to show what one sees. Photography is the exposure of what we saw. The important, most important, is not that it was there, it could have been elsewhere. The most important is what we are doing what was there. Things, beings, landscapes, objects have been there is not indifferent with regard to photography, but almost. What matters most is the look because it is exposure, because it aims to show what he sees. I see through the eyes more than I know what the eye sees. This is trivial. But this relationship is the trivial value and usefulness of photography. Learning to see, perhaps. Learn to show, especially. Learn the attention. Not having to things, beings, landscapes, objects, a remote relative, distracted. Do not take lightly. No. Take the photograph.

This sky-blue above. And not another. This blue-blue sky above this latter. At the edge of which a row of clouds taking shape. A tree. A high-voltage cable that holds the landscape with his oblique.



(sky)

It this book that I have not read and I really want to read, touch or simply to be there in the image with the image.



(Herbert Huncke "Guilty of Everything")

Fingers trying to seize an area of light - as if the photograph was not only the writing of light, but the attempt to seize it, to catch it, as if there was something kaïros in photography in that it seeks to seize this opportune moment : a light moment, a moment of light.



(hand and light)

Or finally, because that it must choose and decide, this self-portrait to the iPhone, and in which the face is hardly, in which we see especially the fingers of the photographer, and bright spots, and persistent work of this show so special What to see photo. Red dot. Point blue almost white almost black. Colored circles that are superimposed on the face without hiding: they are looking for the next one, whether one follows the trail, we want to see more than anything, that cares , is being investigated to find out who he is, thus deepening the body of photography, and photographer.



(self-portrait, 2011)

Finally, all is this: a picture on twitter as the fragment of a photographic Laurence Skivée autobiography.

Photo: © Laurence Skivée.

Best Struts For Jeep Liberty?

photographer in the store today

D-Day in the U.S. editions to nine hours or less battery facing the door, there is Jerome. His hand did not tremble when he pushes the door, his hand said nothing of what he thinks and feels, of his anxiety. Yet his hand said something Jerome. She said Jerome knows how to control, he can hide his emotions, sometimes, at least, when necessary. She said sometimes, at least when necessary, Jerome knows nothing left of what appear to be expressed in a manner pictorially and topological him, feels inside. But God knows that things happen inside of Jerome things that when he asked whether it would be better to believe in God, Jerome address to God. Then he said to Him: to say why - inner silence - why - another - why have you forsaken me? But his hands, but his face, no, they do not tell the old guy that crosses Jerome yet no longer young and on which Jerome wondered what is this how he looks when he enters the building from the U.S. editions .

Jerome found out the day before, J - 1, he would have to get to zero hour in editions É to do a job, for now, we will call T. On the phone, he said it was Nelly, who had not advised, but to the question: "Do you think I can talk to Jerome? ", Replied:" Yes. " Jerome, too, responded: "Yes" without really thinking, what has surprised himself, not the speaker, who do not know, but who knows Mr. Nelly, as they both work for U.S. editions, but not on the same floor, which is why that at H, it will be there, as he promises to J - 1, H - 14. Jerome, it was surprised to be told yes or, rather, someone who looks in all respects to Jerome, except that it has accepted the job. When in fact, good work, Jerome, actually, no. Or penalty but is microscopic. However, to J - 1 and H - 14, he said yes for J. And for eternity, J + ∞, it has accepted.

That's why Jerome does not recognize. Unless he did it for Nelly M (m, obviously), if it did to him, in fact, Jerome, he certainly let himself live again. But with Nellie M is different. He transfers to another nature, so to speak. Certainly, he dreams in his heart (it's the same image as above), a bourgeois existence, oh, not radically, but rather: financial comfort minimum - at minimum - a woman (Nellie M, of course) E and a child - at least (perhaps it is not quite sure yet of wanting to at least one child E). And above all, amateur jazz guitarist. Guitarist Jerome already is too amateurish, but if is a guitarist, it's rock. However, it can no longer rock in all its forms, he wants gentrification in a form of music that allows him simultaneously of not being quite definitely asebine while abandoning any remaining popular at home. Whereas, in fact, Jerome was never in the popular. So one wonders why he has made in the rock. Itself to a large extent, ignored. But it is. And now, Jerome understands that things change: Jerome intends to gentrification. The very notion of "bourgeoisie" in Jerome can be confusing, but We must imagine that rupture is the result of not playing on a Gibson Flying V Jimi Hendrix when he played like the blues, but on a Gibson L5 Wes Montgomery or as a Gibson ES-330 pickups with P-90 as Grant Green, even if it will stop one day his choice on a ES-175 as Derek Bailey. Thus stated, the concept of "bourgeoisie" in Jerome is perhaps not surprising. Added to the fact that being a writer is for Jerome summit of the bourgeoisie. Play jazz guitar and write. Jerome knows he is a failed writer. But he can not help it: want to write. It is without doubt that Jerome is a little or too bourgeois poem. This is why, presumably, her work is problematic. But, in short, he joined the U.S. editions. He does not think the fact that from a certain perspective, it is a bopo, but rather because he is a louseur. But that, nobody knows, nobody notices. Person. He also hopes that nobody will notice ever in U.S. editions. You never know, sometimes there is a ladder to climb.

For now, we're not there yet, Jerome is aware, but he can not help thinking, saluting the person behind the voice of P yesterday. She was immediately put at ease. Jerome had said she would be like this, the person behind the voice of P yesterday. Moreover, it reassures. He feels at ease, finally, a little less uncomfortable, it does not feel at home, but he smiled. And that smile is not forced. What Jerome thinks fit. Who would not do? So with P, that's fine. It will go with the others too, no doubt, despite the butterflies in my stomach that does not let go throughout the morning, butterflies in my stomach that will turn at lunchtime in front of a sandwich S - no, actually, not a sandwich S, but roast beef, overcooked roast beef, but this is not what will collapse - into tears impossible to contain. Downgrade, so he feels he can do nothing. Thus he feels very bottom - and this is not a metaphor. Nelly M-loving, as always, comfort, as always. It will get better. He will say, not entirely truthfully, "It's stress." Jerome lie a little, of course. If he had told the truth, Jerome never used the term "stress". Jerome merely repeating something he heard: "It's heustraisse" is like a repeating signal, an abbreviation for: "Let's move on, darling, will you? Thank you very much for your infinite kindness. " It's less pretty, but again probably feeling the effect of heustraisse in Jerome.

all morning, was in his belly. Or rather, in each book was placed in envelopes and unread, in every book that Jerome did not even have time to browse stamped envelope to each destination unknown to Jerome, in each bar code read by an infrared reader. Jerome wondered how one can read well, he wondered if he will not finish itself as a portable infrared to perform meaningless tasks, which will confirm what Jerome thinks of Jerome: "You see, c is proof that I am a failed writer: I'm no better than a bar code reader and even he did not read me. He will not say to Nelly M. She does not like it says it in those terms. That she loves him, Nelly M. But he still thinks and will think again in the afternoon when he lost in the stock of books he has - of course - not even time to flip, and he will find in this maze of the stock for him - certainly not a library for him - one more reason to despise and absolute confirmation of its decommissioning. Yet God knows the absolute hate Jerome. He would prefer, more modestly, be read and be read really. Instead, it seems to Jerome that the world likes to humiliate him. Jerome would have stayed at the store that three editions Ct.

But, in fact, it lasted longer. First week, during which the strikes have not stopped. And even then ten days, strikes and everything else, shop, books, and descended the steps mounted press service at the store and back and etcetera. There will be some moments where Jerome has been alone in the street, eating a sandwich during the lunch break. Especially in the beginning. Jerome to the streets of the sixth arrondissement of Paris has had time to watch old people it means beautiful virtually bedridden depleting scarce remnants of intelligence wanting to look less old and ugly old turkeys and young chickens all in their Sunday best every day of the week and the beautiful young skinny Gaille very convinced that being a dandy is essentially in the fact of waddle in walking the sidewalks Germanopratins.

If have not crossed any clone of BHL is definitely the kind of fashion, however Jerome has been able to treat these women hyperdynamic. And they walk throwing their boots infinite straight ahead, heels that would penetrate the soil and they wear them like phalluses needles and they are sexy and they are castrating and they are dominating and they are women-wives and women are post-feminist and they are the women who took power with their body and brain + = vagina are these women and they tend overwhelmingly women who are working and have lunch working lunch and they are the women who dine in the world and fuck everyone and they are women who can boast of the feminine world, which has since no longer resembles anything, all these women, Paris is full and boulevards like a podium eyes of males who are just bandage flashes. Besides, that's what Jerome thinks that: public space is a podium without starrer.

But Jerome's thoughts, indeed the U.S. editions, it will not give a damn. Not that we do not like it, Jerome. Is that we do not ask him to think. That Jerome's understanding. He agreed that yes, thoughts P all day, that he can not help it, but he does not state. He did not talk about his thoughts P. Or only when Nelly M, on occasion, they lunch together, between thirteen and fourteen hours. Or the evening when they dine together, and when they lie down, but not while they make love - Jerome is ultimately a very healthy boy. Ideas, so he has, and when the tasks it must perform become quite repetitive, it feels somehow released, he can think without having to think about what he does, a kind of fashion MA auto locks, it can have all the thoughts he wants P. Another day, one day D + n that Jerome was busy putting in envelopes shipment of books of the press, Jerome did not close his eyes, but he began to look straight ahead. He no longer looked at what he did. He had recorded gestures G needed to put a book in The sheet folds with his release. Jerome began to make as if he were blind. And, without believing first of all, each book L started his paper in envelopes with press like there was all alone, as if, say neither this book nor its L then press sheet does Jerome needed to reach its envelope and label the envelope which is written the name of the recipient to stick to it and all the postal company to make way for the postal company follows.

eyes blind to the actions of Jerome G Jerome were able to go where they pleased. Detach actions of G and Jerome, for example, watching over him through the glass that separates the shop from U.S. editions of the Paris sky. A beautiful blue sky, clear, cold skies of December and dry, a sky of winter ahead, and that Jerome likes cold and dry. At that time, and at other times such as T Jerome had rendered possible by switching the automatic mode AD, Jerome did not think he really had P as no thoughts at other times, he looked no more - Jerome does not like it, but not that at all, contemplation, that makes him think of bearded philosopher in a toga, Jerome finds it ridiculous the bearded philosopher in a toga, he prefers the books, except when they contemplation. But for Jerome, as he just remembered, contemplation - like meditation - it's unacceptable. Serendipity HH in U.S. editions, regardless of the stage, it does little more than we meditated contemplated. No, Jerome simply lost in the blue blue sky of Paris gray and white gold, as he never thought they could get lost, since for Jerome, blue sky had always been to Marseilles, and that, certainly not, not that of Paris. It has taken that he is there in the U.S. editions of the magazine, for which Jerome finds another blue sky. Coincidentally C. In this blue sky, Jerome began to conceive of old books today. No content, no. Simply the form F. Books in duodecimo-red morocco gilt fillets but the dishes - Jerome does not like the gilding that more contemplation or meditation, even if the Cartesian - Title Bodoni Old Face in Black, etc.. Jerome then arises the question of what to put, but for now, F is the form of interest, the rest can wait, and anyway, it is already concerned about Jerome, he already drafted a hundred pounds and finished what he himself does not know. These books do not send Jerome imagined anyone would have required them to come get them, that they should desire, etc.. Jerome thought probably thinking that this communication within the U.S. editions, but in editions É ' E'', etc.. This should be the same thing, had taken over the editing itself. The existence of a publishing service in a publishing house he had also brought confirmation: they published books in U.S. editions, but it was no longer an activity among others .

All comments, ideas, thoughts, Jerome did wonder what he was doing there, exactly. It was not for this world, or more exactly, it was not appropriate to this service S. Jerome wanted to write and edited books, hers may not necessarily be rather those of others, he dreamed those who were not yet written. He had said it brought him closer to his goal, he would learn and, after entering its thirty-first year, the prospect of making his life really, it was no longer as alien as before. For now it was only to replace a sick person P, but it was better than nothing. So when we asked Jerome if he would have no objection to extending his stay here, the ground floor U.S. editions, Jerome had he accepted, with some goodwill. It would not a citizen of Jerome as he wanted to become one, or a bopo, as he noted earlier, but accumulating wealth - that it was not significantly changed finally does not matter - he would bring at least a little of that condition C so ardently desired, even to suffer any indignity. But there are no free lunches. At least, was Jerome that what was said. For the sequel, we would see.

What Is Happening With The Poptropica Database

around seventeen hours

Today around seventeen hours in the middle of the sidewalk of the Boulevard Saint-Germain with both hands he still holds his sign with one entry for I'm hungry. At every step I take to have a closer look at what yad'écrit and around the Brasserie Lipp is a little more unbearable. Around him, of course, will I be wrong not specify the passersby do not care any more than the regular customers who sit or not eat or drink the more or less slobbery lip on the inside so the brewery Lipp seated themselves on the contrary it can hardly be said even with the mouth I'm hungry bring me food. So that's right for him no question ordering. Forward again and now close about him as if I could touch but not quite I feel my hand near the fifth pocket of my blue jeans slightly faded at the thighs made but not quite feel better and today is usually where one day the usual rows are parts of my money. To the idea of giving him ten cents to twenty or arbitrary punishment I think that's what good little pretend it is not at least want to feel good that at Saint-Germain-des- Meadows has all of a height, so let's face it are not Germanopratins two euros for a penny in fact I go out of their shelter denim is not a sum not more but this is the best I have to ring and tripped into his piggybank archaic plastic in fact. He said nothing when it hurts the other rare coins or I do not hear me say thank you or not or something else and I do not mind after all the rigor that is not why I'm doing this . When no end. But certainly because of the books purchased for Nelly to offer his birthday on the twenty-sixth this year at a rate of almost sixty-five euros per volume and Because of three volumes in the Bibliotheque de la Pleiade from the first to the three hundred and twenty-seventh night of the three hundred and twenty-seven to seven hundred and ten-ninth night of the seven hundred and ten-ninth to the thousand and first night also because of the meal we will take together when we love we do not count and also touched on the idea of offering him a bouquet of ten tulips which she did not expect. In all these reported figures clearly two euros is definitely not a burden. Indeed there is reason for it not end then. Or no I mean or maybe yes. There is no doubt because it causes it is raining there kneeling on the floor on his knees or nearly so in the sixth district to know the borough's most pretentious probably from Paris to know where this money is not lacking in knowledge where moreover it shows and it shows up and when you do not you take tunes like when we a. Failing to have and laziness as well as failing to take the tunes when we have I give him a little because of what I have will say it. But no that's not it. Rather it is that sympathy came over me suddenly. I suffer with him and I feel and I live. With him I do not eat. Not this. But I'm with him. To my great despair that I am not Christian and therefore not a witness or sponsor it even less clearly reluctantly but probably not the opposite of what I expect from me is how I become a Christian. Absolved of my sins in absolute certainly not. But at that time fully Christian. And the best I might add. In this language or another I would add yet I act out of love for humanity and because I feel close to my neighbor goes without saying but that is to say, shall I say accuracy because I recognize in my knees this year. Failure to kneel with him and everything is possible after all to pray with whatever I do not know if he is Christian or not I share with him what I have. At least it's already a bit is not it. So here we are communing here and showing by example that Christianity has a chance to resurrect an August figure in an autumn day autumn of December step until you give than that which is not known as incredible as it may seem at first.

Ah! Paris will always have Paris ... "he sighed at the thought.

What Gas Stations Sell Condoms?

solo monk silence the wall and my laptop

growth virtually systematic-text sentence by adding small units more or less significant but still significant, or vice versa when one sees the self as is gradually forming in space and time to intersection of silence and emptiness on

I caress my face. I stroked my face listening to Monk. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I do. I stroke my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I can not think of anything. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that point, I music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, the music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is what it is a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference ? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint poorly applied. I stroke my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, like a scar. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, at that time, my music or the white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I thinks of nothing, like a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think anything like a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, at this point, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think anything like a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, at this point, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall in the ears and then Monk, plus a note. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I think nothing, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, eyes in the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus. I stroke my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then more a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am well sound, I am the wall, white as snow. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last acccord still resonates like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, the music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord sounds like a bit paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am well sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand, that's how I live. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand it how I live, in the oblique wall. I stroked my face listening to Monk's everything I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, at that time then, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between sound and the wall, I expand, that's how I live , obliquely in the wall, I'm an experiment. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, who said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand it how I live, in the oblique wall, I'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I do, look into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall, at this point, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand, that's how I live, in the slanting wall, I 'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand it how I live, in the oblique wall, I'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist. I stroked my face while listening Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or white wall at that time, my music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between sound and the wall, I expand it as what I saw, oblique in the wall, I'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist, I collect data and these data do me. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand it how I live, in the oblique wall, I 'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist, I collect data and these data do me and I become a fact. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same ? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand it how I live, in the oblique wall, I'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist, I collect data and these data do me and I become a fact, despite the silence of Monk's what I am. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, staring into the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is that it makes a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, more a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between sound and the wall, I expand, that's how I live, in the slanting wall, I'm an experience, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist, I collect data and These data make me, and I become a fact, despite the silence of Monk, this is what I am, despite the white wall, that's all I do. I stroked my face listening to Monk, that's all I'm doing, staring into space, the eyes in the white wall, I do not think about anything, as a body, I do not know what I am, the music or the white wall at that time, me music or white wall, is Does it make a difference? and then the music stops, then it makes a difference between silence and the white wall, which said that the silence and the white wall, it was the same thing? I'm not one thing, the last chord still ringing like a little paint applied incorrectly, as a scar like an idiot, staring into the white wall, ears in Monk and then, over a note, and then more noise, just the white noise of my tinnitus, I am sound, I am the wall, white as snow melted in the sun, I m'écoule between her and the wall, I expand, that's how I live, in the slanting wall, I am only an experiment, this piece is my laboratory, I am guinea pig and I am a scientist, I collect data and these data do me and I become a fact, despite the silence of Monk, this is what I am, despite the white wall, that's all I do, however, that I caress my face.

Anti Freze Patch Soulsilver

What am I saying? A story perhaps, as a story that we tell from father to son, or rather from mother to son, or rather two, a story that I convey to me as well. It would be a story that would survive the day and spend the night of that day to the other, or something like that, or another. Well, maybe if I listen, I strums, the sound of keys in this message that I do not send, but I intend, however, without knowing exactly who or what a message that I intended without destination or recipient.

Well, I listen:

Two men talk, one more than the other, a stronger the other, in fact, one louder than the other, they joke, only laughed.

There. So I listen and sleep. I forget that piece of text, this sentence written pianotée more accurately, I repeat, I repeat, I forget his keys, the percussive music, the sound that I do when I write, the sound it produces This little machine when I am writing sentences at night when I can not sleep. It moved to hear and the sound of his writing, that we love and which I am responsible, is inappropriate, it does not fit with the image that people have of literature, or something resembling it, is perfectly unfit, a mobile phone is not unique to literature. And yet there it takes shape, the night when I can not sleep. This, it might be elsewhere, is contingent, except that here, this is where I invest the literature.

Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and stronger, in fact, they joke, one laughs, it's a fact.

A bed and a mobile phone as an inkstand, I think I'm some kind of writer and share my scribe, my cellphone, my more-than-scribe-cell plays a significant role in this impression . My more-than-scribe-portable and me at night in bed, lying, camouflaged, we cut almost in the world, I will hide my more-than-laptop-scribe its function, I use it for perfectly unfit. Because it is unbearable to write on his cell phone-phrases, I would say the sentence, the sentences of a novel coming unknown since all do hardly the sort and we dread, the fear, as you will, in future. It drags, in fact, intuitive writing mode has a nominal relationship with the intuition behind it is slow, it's full of mistakes, it ignores the words, I need to teach him, the clock is ticking, but not sentences, hours passed, but the sentences are long in coming, fucking more-than-scribe-portable. Unless this is me with my technique of junk, with this more-than-scribe-Mobile, which too often goes her head, and which often touches the walls of the chamber surrounding it may well remain Besides, I have an intuition. Unless this is me, hiding the light of more-than-scribe-portable, forgetting to listen to my music finally percussive strumming, yet not ceasing strum, but not progressing as far or so ago, or Then without me really noticing, as if my more-than-scribe-Mobile worked for me. That's right, let's say it works for me, my more-than-scribe-portable. Let's hear it:

Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and stronger, in fact, they joke and one laughs, it's a fact.

The image of a pure literature, handwritten, outdated, yet I dream at night when I can not sleep, I dream that I write a novel that I started on a cell phone that therefore dysfunctional to perfection, my more-than-scribe-portable, my invention, my machine to destroy my sentences, forced to start over, my more-than-scribe-portable, my machine to reflect the image of pure literature, my more-than-scribe-Mobile pushes me to fault disrupts my tongue, explodes on occasion, there is nothing left on my more-than-laptop-scribe the sound percussion fingers on the keys that look for missing phrases that my more-than-scribe-Mobile has swallowed and digested and spit it in a sentence for no other like my own. My more-than-scribe-Mobile is working for me, he works to destroy my sentences, one after the other, my one sentence, the first, that I seek, first, a perfect sentence and impossible.

Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and also stronger, in fact, they joke and one laughs, it's a fact.

not sleep, I do not sleep, I can not even find my words at least I do not think any of those that have chosen not imagine me. By dint delete, start over and start again, erase everything, and again and again, etc.. my more-than-scribe-Mobile could die if I were him. I mean, if I was totally him, if I were an outgrowth of me, I extinguish me. I do not sleep. Neither words, I find some, sure, but no order, just words, but not the order, not available or the tone, just as words to say nothing, actually. Is that a fact? Is that the facts exist, import, are simply converted to a mobile phone and more-than-scribe-portable. Who cares? That may be a fact that all these words mean nothing, then they might want to say something in a different context, but here, here, here, right now, or before or at the time, on my more-than-scribe-mobile say? Not much actually. Is that a fact? Barely phrases whose meaning concern. Barely phrases on my more-than-scribe-portable, which could believe it? And who could believe that this is, indeed, I mean it's not something that we seek to conceal, smuggle, it is precisely this: the literature. Who would believe in a literature made from the following ingredients: just sentences on a cell phone called the opportunity for more-than-scribe-cell belonging to the author at night?

Two men talking, one more than the other, in fact, and also stronger, in fact, they joke and laugh one is a fact that speaks volumes.

New Mighty Muggs Releases

John Lee Hooker

It's crazy! This record is crazy! Burning hell is a kind of punk before its time, dirty, sweaty, full of blasphemy, is not no heaven is not no burning hell, just guitar, voice and footer that JLH beats and this roaring harmonica . You talk too much, it's mean mean mean, same style, voice, guitar, foot, harmonica mama mama mama you talk too much, you yak yak yak All The Time. And: You Talk Too Much woman to finish. It's hard! It smells like rabies, how to say, contained a kind of hatred of everyday life, that of a sudden, bam, it explodes, it leaves with the impression that it's spontaneous while JLH had to play these songs 100 times and more before playing with Canned Heat. It's crazy! We must put strong very strong. To hear the breath. Lamps that sizzle. The reverb is unhealthy bed whenever JLH attack the strings, that bam! a great shot of her sole pumps - you know, its pumps, you can imagine the alligator, or in a special leather, it is already hard for success, finally, a hard disk that starts a long series of collaborations, you feel the guy is out of the misery that the Mississippi is long gone, and he, he taps his foot, with its pumps super class when he plays, he does not care for its pumps, it Perhaps a suit for $ 100, but that does not count, JLH, Chicago or Paris, it will always be the same thing: it will always be Mississippi. And then when you think you understand, JLH you spell it: send me your pillow babe you've been cryin 'you babe i want to let you know babe I'm lonely just like you babe I'm so worried babe na worried. You feel the ambiance. JLH speaks. He talks to guys with whom he plays. It explains a little life. And bam! bam again! And suddenly 1 2 3, he explains life. Love. Send me your pillow babe you've been cryin 'babe. Alone. There may be a guitar that accompanies it. But he is all alone. Or: Boogie chillen, Canned Heat as much JLH. This is really a group. It smells like rock. JLH can let go and scream. Just to say I Felt so good when his parents decide to let the boogie-woogie. It is the song of liberation - liberation individual, while always being brought back to himself in the blues. Long blues without words which follows, we hardly hear a yeah! that punctuates the thing, say again! Yeah! That's More! Go! Not stop! Encore! Let that boy boogie-woogie! Boogie-woogie all night! I Felt so good! Let him boogie! Always tell his story as history because the history of the person and the history of music are one. Higher! I want to boogie! Howling for the boogie. Screaming that we should for JLH. CH provided that JLH. This is the meaning of the second part of the disk. Genre: let's make it, the melody is boom boom. That is to say boom boom boom - will shoot you right down - and let's make it - I want to love you all night - it's the same thing: love and death, and cock the gun . It's all one. Politically correct? No. Except that everything is there. More a melody, a sound, an intention, a meaning. Or maybe it's the sound that makes sense. Voyeuristic before I got my eyes on you. Because that is the sublime love. Distance. Watch the loved from afar. Seen from afar. The closer look. Feel it. The grasp. And rhyme with the ow ow. Pain with pain. Enjoyment with pleasure. Literally, I have my eyes my eyes I have my eyes on you - I like my eyes on you. This record is crazy! Forty years later, this album is crazy! And the last The world today, poor, there may rien.Incroyable.

When Is Desperate Housewives Rerun

The metro is not

The subway does not exist - it is a fiction. What exists, however, are its sidelines, its hallways, enclosed docks. This is where life is where the nothingness of temporary shelters, makeshift taverns, garbage becoming a closet or a refrigerator.

The subway is not as substance, it is the holder of relationships, not so many movements - I do not move in the subway, at best, I cover myself - the travel. The metro is not even a real network: those who inhabit it do not communicate between the poles it connects, it is perhaps not all, at best, it offers, provides, offers, suggests travel arrangements.

I do not move in the subway, I cover myself, I nestled myself perhaps, whether I'm myself or no, I am, I don ' ahead get nothing, I 'm a transit in a transit in transit within a translation, a stream that leads me and I always already know where. For it is in the metro this size always-planned. I can be surprised, but this does not alter the course of displacement: if I can achieve this as well, I could do it otherwise. The subway does not disappoint. It is only lines, or rather it is a line more or less right, between two coordinates: start / finish. The subway does not exist - without this basic geometry.

The metro does not exist outside its fence. Nor is there elsewhere outside its dependence on territory - or whatever you want really - so desperately that he follows behind, trying to be where this happens has already happened, to catch, to be there. But perhaps after it has occurred, is not too late?

The subway does not exist outside of those he carries, and it is always the same, the same individuals in the same places, the subway is just the driver where they are to where they want to go, where they want to be where they should go, where they are forced to where they are forced. The subway is only a substitute for our movements became too weak and extended, this is only a substitute himself too weak for our purposes.

The subway does not exist - is it then all I have to say?

I could say the subway is the rhizome, the mole that does not come out for nothing to see because she never stops outside, she is still hiding, she is not discreet, no, but she always tries to overcome its indiscretion in concealing his stops. It works like an animal runs underground.

Yes. Either. And then? What I say of his fiction, his life in Paris and others (suburban returnees, Parisian expatriates, tourists) covets it daily? What I would say so on the line 3a so weak that his vision mapped immediately arouses the desire: what's happening there? This is how the line 3a? And if we took Just for fun we would satisfy the take, to see how it is done carefully, how it is when you touch it? 7a or line that closes on itself, seems to lead nowhere. The fact that it is both in the same geographical area there a way? What prompted that there was need these growths?

The subway does not exist - it is a fiction. All or part (s). And, as such, it is an object of desire as possible. Not a theoretical object. Not an object which we dream. An object full of objects that want him, for sure, but may also want as we want a body that will not necessarily, we may have, but which we refer to as a body that is never really in its entirety.

This metro-there is neither nor rhizome network, it is residual, it is for example this is a breath escaping from his mouth and swallowed up all he wants (Under Dresses ? No, that subway is not glamorous then.).

Line 7a or Line 3a: Single line loop and loosens or trait that loop. These are not lines, but losses, traces of an impossible space that is always looking over his fence, which pushes the vacuum, subtract the empty vacuum operated, draws lines on the vacuum, the height, but certainly not joy. Although these alternative routes in a complex that is still in overload are: happiness to isolate small traces and convolutions, to realize that happiness of a, there is not only music, here and there also, where, music, there is little that the rails that attack rail and voices more or less stifled individuals, we can still want, you can ask for more. Not necessarily applaud with both hands it would be too, but do it again, repeat the lines.

In Italy, you can go up to interrupt the opera to hear again a tune tenor or soprano had played particularly well. In a, it merely repeats a tune, play it, it does not change the structure of the work nor does it emerge new situations creatively. But there is hope in this repetition of enjoyment that it is impossible to ignore.

The metro is not opera, but it also demands his recall it requires the repetition of lines. Whether erotic or not, does it really matter? What matters is that these lines show that the metro is only developed by repetition of itself. On the map, on the metro map, those lines do not even own color, they are degraded in a color that is already the color of a line. They only reproduce a number that is not theirs and do it in a color that is not entirely theirs. They exist at the expense of others, without the mimic (their journey is far too ridiculous to claim it), but by repeating gradient line that runs elsewhere.

How To Get Sponsored In Fingerboarding

New Year

cold

photography

distinguishes light complexion who dies from that which arises between the two

they say happy new year to him that morning sweeps the black

are the first actions

photographs in the cold

of you at this time and shortly before and shortly after

thee my god I love

between five and six times as

districts of Paris in Paris at that time when you do not look at me I see only you and the lights

everywhere who go out one by one or not at all

if they go out is that we are still alive

cold

photography

cold as photography

flowers not at half mast like us who play

adverbs adverbs impregnable unspeakable

flowers plants

mast and we do not like them they look and say their names

bergamot CRAPAUTE

two sisters

and still it does there was nobody or almost

is what we think before entering here

after that great men are dead all dead

not we

lights in Paris do not go

lights paris consumed

sing if we do not die tonight we never die