Jenna Jameson Pierced Nipple

"The possibilities of the use of speech in the heart of terror."

I've never been a very patriotic person. Indeed. Even as a child I hoped to get out of my city, even as a teenager I had great hopes about to leave Italy. For purely political reasons, more intimate that that policy-I have never understood anything, or almost. I remember in elementary school made us write an essay on how to spend the evenings before going to sleep, and design at the bottom I had represented my grandfather sitting in an armchair with a newspaper in his hand, and headlines "Scalfaro in prison" ;. Poor guy, even knew who he was, Scalfaro. Well. It is said practically non-political person. Never really found a party that reflects my ideas-also not too clear. I understand that it is not only far-right here. It is not linked to Catholic parties, as an atheist.
So I never discussed politics, or at least not often, unless you know what I said and to be certain.
And then, I am the examination of Contemporary History.
Needless to say I'm going crazy on economic policies and policies blunt.
But the point is another, the point is the book about Aldo Moro. His letters from prison, those family members who have saddened me indefinitely. And I know that every word would be weighed, because revised by the Red Brigades, in their complaint, and perhaps ridettatura the prisoner to obtain a text appropriate to their strategy. The "strategy of terror",
And it is 55 days so complex, made of layers and nuances and things said and not said, which makes it impossible to have a real opinion, why should I document myself much more. And as I said, politics is not my forte.
In any case, I left a bad taste in my mouth. The
Br, the choice of hiding in the name of an ideal right-wrong that was. In the end, no one can say that they have the right, in things like this. The error in the methods that are more in the ideas [except in exceptional circumstances here. Ideas such as the superior race are still to be condemned, already have them]. I could not even say that the Red Brigades were the first in the history of the world to fight a tragic and sometimes inhuman their battle. He did the Church. They did such states civil, and less civilized. But I digress.
It seems that I am giving them right, but I do not think at all that we had none.
What really saddens me, was the behavior of the ruling class, that they have to depreciate at all costs Moro-Moro, the same for thirty years worked alongside them, who had to know and understand and interpret. Yes, there are been cases of politicians who have tried opening-the "channel". Double, at State and even the Vatican. The imperative to save Moro
still there.
But I do not know. I am left with the feeling that you could do something more. And the murder of Moro, that on May 9 '78, is a wound that Italy still has to lug around. A wound that often avoids recall much, but it's like a cut in the mouth that remains open because the language [and then the words and the memory] avoids heal.
That was a defeat for the Italian State.
It also shows that empty coffin, in the Mass attended by politicians, after Moro, in his letters, he asked not to have a state funeral, because the State did not want to learn more. Neither of his beloved DC, from where he resigned from his "prison".
I can not imagine the fear, anguish, disappointment and sparse flashes of light of a man who wrote and fought for himself until the end. Who engaged in the written words, because they were the only thing that remained in those 55 days. In that hole, three meters by one where he was confined. It does not matter, it was not a perfect man. It does not matter whether, with all its moderation and its tendency to compromise, failed to give a new look and better for the country-a country that some have turned their backs.
She struggled and Italy believe it. They believed.
E, boh. Maybe I just wrote a bunch of crap-I am just that hot.
The bitter taste remains for me. And I still have those words thrown down at the moment:

long wave of absent memory, this is an Italy

of desolate heritage.

Wart Or Cyst On Thumb

anyver_deb @ 2010-08-19T20: 02:00

E 'became official on August 18, at fifteen hours and twelve hours in which time I looked at the window, then.
Officially, OT is over. Concluded. I wrote my classical sentence, what I write in all the works in prose terms, and that makes me tremble every time your heart. Even a little breath, and this time was different again.
Why can not I ever cried at the end of a story before OT.
was with me from the beginning of January when I started to write [or the last days of December, when I started the project] and has been with me forever. Especially the first few months, but also during the detachment who were in May and June, and now in July I thought incurable. As it happened, that in a few days, has written quell'irrecuperabile final, I can not explain.
And I think a lot of things, thinking about the drafting of OT.
kilometer walks in my room, and he flashes that catches me almost everywhere I-I learned to shoot with notebook and pen only since I started this job.
I think of the dozens of train travel-commute-with headphones in his ears, listening to its soundtrack.
And so I think of many songs and melodies that have accompanied all this, and you will be bound forever.
In particular, "The Kill" -30 Seconds to Mars song as the carrier. But even some classical pieces, especially related to 'Orphee et Eurydice Gluck. Paganini E, Then Liszt. How can we not remember and his Schubert Rosamunde for strings. Then, the song of my character as an atmosphere that does not go so well, so dark and sad, but that's perfect words for him. And those pieces [horrible]-pop, I can not not bind.
Then there are images that will never be the same meaning. The sea, for example, the color of the sea.
A white rose on a piano. The red hair. The black velvet. The sun and the moon, the sand.
The profiles of Paris. OT
I started when I was writing the third novel of a mythological fantasy series, and should not be just a joke. One way to explore and experiment, to train some sections of writing that does not satisfy me. And then
.
E 'became my life-my breath. Myself. Reading it, it holds 70% of me as a person.
There is a bit of me in characters, atmosphere, history itself. Reflections and distortions and discomfort and salvation.
And I was really saved me from myself, OT.
He saved my love for writing, gave me back a little bit of confidence, probably.
not love him enough, I think. And I'll never stop loving him. It 's a novel because it opens and closes, because it has a theme, around which a pivot turn, has a more or less nominal protagonist, and the road takes the beaten paths and leads to a conclusion. It 's a novel, yes. But it is not finished.
It will not end until they end their lives. And mine with them.
The following is in the works, the side also.
I will start it very soon. I fear that without them, now, for me, it is impossible to stay.

"It 's much less indecent sleeping together, that look in his eyes."
Boris Vian. Last night I dreamed

How Long Does It Take For A Check

anyver_deb @ 2010-08-17T18: 00:00

Victor.
What then could very well be the model.
And nothing, stood there and stared at me. She stared at me. She stared at me.
With those eyes that have nothing to regular-land.
was sitting in the middle of a room with white walls and a blue [why I say that Victor was] cross-legged on the floor. E Boh, I just stared. Maybe every so often spoke, because he opened his mouth. Just as soon as he does. But I did not feel.
I do not know, Victor always leaves me feeling this strange.
a weight that is heavy but not light. Block in some way. As a
Magone that is not in the throat, but in the middle of the chest. In the center, not the heart.
E 'completely absurd the effect it has on me.
I think it's because they have almost finished the OT.
A bit like if I was missing the ground under their feet, or something essential in the air.
's probably just a delusion, that.
do not even know why I'm writing.

Connecting A Usb Hard Drive To An Lg Tv

Someday.

Days
Days tired.
Days infinitesimal suppliers.
Days.
Days of mirrors blind.
Days all equal and endless
when everything seems to be glass,
when life crumbles between your fingers.
Days trembling.
Days when the whole world
sand is shining hour.
Days which is exceeded,
continually bypassed.
Days when the soul is oil.
Days of tremors.
Now that your sad song
no longer able to pay.
Days when cats cry.
And days when we cry.
any day.
Days of paper.
Days that no knife
size or emotion.
Days of nothing.
Days like me.

This poem goes back about four years ago. More or
less. But it is always present, is one of the few that I have never ceased to feel. Will be speaking of something vague and obvious and predictable, is that maybe the days are always the same. Background. And nobody cares.
I remember writing it in a moment of apathy. Complete vacuum, as if I and the reality we had become two-dimensional, and all slip. A bit, I was going through. It's not that I mind a few things that do not smile or other.
's just that everything seems a little flutter on a screen hyaline.
I do not know. Maybe I just feel alone.
The only good thing is that I picked OT. And who knows where it came from, where the inspiration is back. But perhaps it had always been here, and I just had to put seriously to the keyboard. I had to find something.
I think I'm lost.
And maybe I missed really. But
... boh. I have a feeling, for once, I find myself.
Sooner or later.
After all, today was sunny. Even if it was hot.
Above all, why was not hot.
And I got some direction.
E 'something.
Maybe.

The Notorious Jewel De'nyle

People & Love.

Non scrivo qui da un pezzo.
Forse non ho niente da dire -o forse, come sempre mi capita, ho troppo da dire e la congenita incapacità di farlo. Non mi riferisco ai mezzi. Mi riferisco proprio al fatto che i miei pensieri sono spesso del genere che potrebbe spaventare/adirare qualcuno. Forse il mio modo di vedere le cose è davvero troppo strano. Forse la vera voce fuori dal coro non sono io, ma è la mia testa.
Forse non dovrei usare questa pagina come un diario del cazzo.
Di recente ho pianto. A singhiozzi, proprio, su un mezzo pubblico, con una famigliola felice che mi guardava come se trovasse riprovevole il mio spezzare il loro idillio da Mulino Bianco. Ho pianto perchè gone someone who has become a part of me, or maybe it always has been. When I went to pick her up at the airport, I was anxious. I was wondering what the hell we talked about, and how many there would have been embarrassing silences in 5 days. Not one. Not that there were no silences. But those silences were comfortable only with people you know have a life, and often not with them. Strange. Five days with him the feeling that you were here forever. Having already met and lived. It 'was the strangest find myself without her, we find her sleeping in my bed.
In sheets with cats and Labrador ^ ^
Shoot shit dignity and healthy with a white handkerchief every time he touched me. I hugged and I melt like an idiot, maybe because nobody hold me over for the simple desire to do so, for too long.
I believe in the walls. I believe in human need to have all too human.
And I think there are people who can knock them down.
Just as I think there are other people, you'll read here, can do it with me. And they will. This time it happened to her, with that nose by wren and fingers icy, and that beautiful smile. E 'come to the airport and hugged me, and that's it. Ditto me. And I brought
everywhere, and I cried when shared. Away from her, let me see. In
Volabus, and then home, in the empty room and messy XD-
Recalling the tide of crap shoot, the moments maniacs. Endless discussions about characters-my, his, ours, of others.
dreams and aspirations.
The pillow-as my XD Sometimes he deserved UU
The three hundred and twelve coffee a day-coffee = magic word.
and the need to load it stupid of gifts and presents semi-serious.
The plush wolf and the squirrel looking at me from the shelf, as if to say, and what happened to her?
you are in Sardinia. At his home. Although I wish it was here ^ ^ "

Sometimes people talk to you. We are confident. They tell you things that would upset me, but do not. They do not change for you, but perhaps you change them for a while. Do you know more. Too much, perhaps. Yet somehow everything remains the same.
love them the same way. Increases the desire to protect them from this evil world, knowing that I will not let him. Why are stubborn animals UU
So you find a book of "The Little Prince", with illustrations and quotations, and think I'll take it. The like.
But you know you can not send him to never-never let them have.
But then, so it's good enough. Are not oggetti, certe volte.
Basta che le persone continuino a rotolare. E sappiano che alla fine della rotolata -e della fuga, qualche volta- tu sarai lì.
Comunque.

Poi, ci sono le persone che hai ferito.
Inconsciamente, e senza nessuna intenzione di farlo. Persone che perdono fiducia in te -che si sentono tradite.
Ne sto pensando due. Persone infinitamente preziose, che sento allontanarsi.
E ho paura di dire o fare qualcosa, perchè non so quali tasti toccare.
Perchè si sono sentiti messi da parte, forse, anche se io non l'ho fatto per niente.
Sono solo la solita idiota terribilmente distratta. Impulsiva. Casinista, che non pensa abbastanza prima di agire thinks too much and then having acted. I would say to these people-to S. and D. - I'm still the same, that my love has not changed, nor my dedication. I'm just hurt, and D. should know better than anyone else. But he will probably never read this post. And I would so willingly embrace
S. But so much.

Yes, I have become saccharine.
The post is long.
Forgive me ^ ^ "
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