Moust Besutiful Woman In Girdles

Winter Music

Carol explains to Max before, long ago, they had him and all his friends, major construction projects. They wanted to build this and that, and nothing would do them harm ... and then one day, without them realizing it, their teeth fell out.
Maybe it was too late for construction. The weather did not expect, or they believed in its power.
Winter is coming soon and then it will be spring. Concern. Being a child at this very hour and time will pass, it will be over soon, it will be good for others, those 6 years. So we must wait for the bus and go up. We can only return and watch what you leave behind. Do not worry, others say, those that are mounted before, years ago. It does not last long. It does not hurt.
It does not last very long, it's true. This small moment is the ride melancholy beings torn world, the world which they were kings. They have to give up the crown to another, the successor, the one that said goodbye to his joyous smile, they still hate the successor to the first. Grow up and understand that this is not always the fault of others. And that's the most painful, this little tip in the heart, and love which is guilty, realizing suddenly that can hurt and can no longer really care. It's not before, we did not like. But that's not the same.
Wondering why the Mother looks at her with a little look so sad. Because you grow, my child. And you change. Nothing more, yet this change makes me vomit. Grow up you will remember, perhaps, to build what you wanted to build when you were king. You had ideas, imagination, and you did not care the time, do you care what others said, those who you said it was impossible. Above all, I could not rock you. The child becomes an adult loved one that is feared.
Keep the monster within himself and screaming with rage because you're angry, crying bitterly because we are sad, it hurt to laugh because we are happy, the eyes also in vacuum, or closed because they thought, or that we daydream, if ever bite the other upset, break the camel's back because we no longer know the words to say.
Some say it is no longer. It should be reasonable now.
With this child with this monster, to write the novel, then burn the pages, build the castle and destroy it, kicking his feet in the mound of earth and rebuild it.
Destroy, Rebuild. Say that it could be better and pay attention to you, This means that you are depressed. Build, destroy and rebuild. Weaving secrets.
We know that the ride takes longer than what others would have us believe. The stupidity of some is to believe that they are adults, this condition does not exist. The strength of others is to be sponge and flame. To be on the verge of explosion, always. The bus, they took it. Except at the last moment, laughing, flying the driver's seat, they changed direction. The adults try to play, but there is much left to burn. There is a small opening in the heart, and everything ran them through the tiny opening. They expect without dreaming. And if others are waiting too, they dream the same time. They play and burn and burn. Moreover, they prefer to burn rather than wait too long. Some prefer the sadness of infertility. Some prefer the suicide disease. Time itself, can not wait. Time is a creditor. It will hurt, and no need to have 40 or 50 years to know there will always be evil, and we will need many things to fill the gaps, and sometimes we will need more than desire, and then we die, and then it is.
And since now we know, they cry, reopening the wounds with great blows of scissors, knife, scalpel.
Gale. The first word. Cry and you will create a world irrigated with our blood. Pain rather than drying. The world narrowed to our excesses, though small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. It gets the crown.
king of a tiny kingdom trembling, a dusty attic, a lonely island larger, broader, more terrible, more intense than all the continents combined.

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Who Will Survive And What Will Be Left Of Them? Black Jewel

In 1883, the territory of Colorado, Alfred Packer was sentenced to death.
He was not hanged but finally spent some time in jail. It was an old man when he emerged.


Alfred Packer was a Union soldier. We thanked him quickly, because of epilepsy. A soldier who became a guide beautiful winter day. In 1874, he had to take him to Utah to Colorado 21 minors. But nobody knew he was not well endowed. No one suspected he might be bragging.
Packer and the 21 miners were lost in a snowstorm, saw their food away in a river while trying to cross it, met the Chief Ouray of the Ute tribe, friend of white men , who offered them hospitality.
And Packer wants, really, to return Colorado. Five of his companions also. They want to hit the road, despite warnings from the Indian chief. The Rockies are dangerous nature, this time of year is unfair.

Chief Ouray and his wife Chipeta .

Packer was accompanied by Shannon Wilson Bell, a strapping red-haired, James Humphreys, who had $ 133 in his pocket, Frank "Reddy" Miller, redhead, too, also nicknamed the "Butcher" no one knows that s' it was actually George "California" Noon, a frail young boy of 18 years and Israel Swan, aged 65. From them, we do not know much. They were small and had a thirst for gold.
This gold, he expected them. For this reason, alone, did they dare cross the Rockies. They took the road, their backpack. The dream is so close, the future promises wonders.
The first to die was the Dean Swan.
He died of cold, hunger, fatigue. The others stayed a few minutes near his corpse, a pearl on the eyelashes can be, but often prevents the cold to cry. They stood there looking at it, the saliva on his lips as was the rage. Something
end in the stomach in stomach. And the frozen corpse reminds the body of the animal that was hunted.
There may be one that has thrown the idea in the air like that, without really thinking. And maybe it was Miller who took the knife that was used to cut the meat frozen, this may be why it was nicknamed the butcher. Regardless of whether Swan was human, and he was their companion. When you become a wolf in the forest, only hunger that has twisted her stomach. All thoughts abolished, but pain in the womb, the entrails demanding their due.
And then four or five days later, Humphreys died in turn. The $ 133 in his pocket, they would no longer serve him much. Packer then borrowed them.
And then they ate it, too.
And then came the turn of the Butcher Miller of German origin. Packer said there was an incident when he had left to hunt. He was never able to tell what really happened to the butcher. He came back he was dead. One incident, that's all. Noon Bell or targeted animal and hit the man, perhaps.
Then they ate it, too. Packer replied
hunt. Long. When he returns, he discovers the corpse of the young George. A bullet in the body, that Bell shot at close range with gun Swan. Packer, mumbles, does not require explanation. He's hungry, that's all he knows.
a ravenous bear, a hungry inhumane.
Then they eat it, too.
But Bell still hungry. He has an ax in his hands and his gaze is fixed on Packer. Packer fired first. Self-defense. It was him or Bell. Packer still has enough strength to choose, and Bell is mad, mad with hunger, mad at all. It was perhaps more fragile than California.
All this is true. The simple truth, "he says.
Help me, my God, but everything is true .
The Dead Man's Gulch. The place where Packer called feasted well.
A reporter on a mission stop at the scene, armed with white sheets and crayons. He sits down and draws five bodies, that the cold has frozen, the animals have eaten. The bodies bear the marks of an ax. Missing head of one of them. Presumably it is Frank Miller. The breast of one was cut at the other, it lacks some of the calf. Some seem to have been beaten.



Packer's tale is blood on the snow and cries of the man who is blind.
And one or two lies. Alfred
not even know her name. An error on the paper, an error on a tattoo and Alfred Alferd becomes. Packer back in Colorado. He does not know how he really did. He did not even return for coming back alive from this hell. Nobody asks him questions, then he is silent. It foams and bars without the laughter he gave a March evening, nobody would ever have known. Frenchy Cabazon is a former group member, who recognized that laugh in this saloon. He was surprised that others are not there to drink and laugh, too.

Alfred looks healthy, but it feels tired. All he seeks is the whiskey. He does not want to eat. All he wants is the whiskey, and he has the wherewithal to pay. Alfred
a thousand versions to tell. First, his companions were abandoned because he had injured his leg. But let him rummage through his memory, and he will tell you that Bell killed everyone. Him, he ate because he was hungry, and he who has never suffered from hunger does not know his happiness. He was hungry, he ate, the law of nature is as simple as that. Imagine the hunger, imagine the cold, imagine the emptiness and your bowels harden.
Nobody believes it, but Polly Pry and Trey Parker, but that's another story.
Polly is famous throughout Colorado. Acerbic pen and paper controversial. Polly has done much research. Thieves and murderers would be released. Why not a cannibal? She thought the say, clams, even small sellers of newspapers that are at his door, everybody cares. He is guilty. Otherwise, it would be the sixth corpse. Otherwise, he would not escape during his first arrest. One judge for the murder of Israel Swan. In 1883 he will be accused of murdering her five companions in misfortune. There is so much to put him on the back, "said the judge, and God takes pity on him.


And then there is an example.
In this year 1883, two cases of cannibalism are known, outside the territory. Packer will be the example, the wild card drawn at random. He will be hanged until death ensued. Polly stirred paper under the nose of the accusers. Do not forget he was a soldier.
Whether Packer thanked Polly Pry.
He will go to jail. He stayed 20 years. 20 years to perform the same rituals. He became a vegetarian. Goalkeeper Hoyt says he never had any problems with him. And every attempt to release, Alfred says, whenever he is innocent. He has eaten, yes, and besides, he never got hidden. But he never killed. And ghosts, those who died, those who are in him now, forgive him. They would have done the same thing.
One day in 1901, he sees for the first time the American sun, hand over his eyes, he hears the laughter and shouting in the streets. There will be three months at Polly Pry. But it does not stay. He hates Denver. He knows nothing of city life. He wants the freedom of the hills.
is in the streets of Littleton that the soldier Packer ages. People whisper, on his way. This is the man who killed and ate his companions? It's strange, it is so nice! He
children sit on his lap and tell them about the Great West. The Old West.
A real adventure, kids. Consider your lucky you are warm, sheltered, you're not hungry. And when it snows, it's important. Sounds acquired. Never be sure of nothing. Hunger, she cares. She will not ask your opinion, it will not ask you if this is acceptable, good or normal.
All that, and the rhetoric is the wind, nothing, when you're hungry.

*** A must-see musical comedy and horror, a little swath (for which I have immense affection) Trey Parker, one of the fathers of dirty kids South Park ; Cannibal! The Musical. Pearl impudence and humor idiot who will remind everyone that building a snowman can be fatal.

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Se dream as the Countess Castiglione, Virginia, who was anything but natural. Be
permanent representation in the mirror and worry, when the first wrinkles appear.



This was the experience the beautiful countess, a cold November morning, and that's what makes him the desire to break all the mirrors in her apartment.
Whether these mirrors were lovers gifts, gifts of friendship, offering to its beauty, offering price paid. The countess was all broken, with his heels and punched. He had to break this reflection was no longer hers, since these wrinkles, they do not belong to him. The marble and alabaster do not bask. These mirrors, we do not cross, they are merely a reflection of reality cruel and cold as November. They sometimes reveal more than we wanted. They reveal the fear and its attendant despair. She goes out at night to avoid being seen, not to present the forfeiture that is hers, she shone Dame de Coeur in the balls. Marble is eternal. A rose does not fade.


A rose does not fade, but there's still fun to see it fade. Fun
fierce. The pleasure of not having power, because this is something stronger than us, and it's time that passes, and since she knows now, as surrendering behind black curtains and rose petals that creak under the heel. The countess uttered a loud laugh and his hands, blood flowing from his wounds, they reopened it and started breaking the reflection, one that fades before the mirror, but not before the camera. Him, he flies. She raises her eyes hard on the goal and he will remember his eyes, and he will also remember it was beautiful and wanted. And the countess never flees if it desires. Besides, she prefers to leave rather than being unwanted. And loved.
The Countess is hiding and reveals.
And now, she will be artist. A whim, a sudden urge. The countess has always been temperamental. These photographs will be in his grave over the new playground, and then, she has no fear, because there is no difference. It will be more beautiful than ever, more beautiful even than when she was moving, it will Recalled frozen, it will be inquisitive eye, scrutinizing those who scrutinize it will be beautiful and old, proud in suffering, hidden, and tell the truth of her body and soul, and it will be the widow of her beauty, she is the widow of all young men and beautiful young men who were in love with her one day.


The countess is on the other side, and she chose herself to go. Nobody forced them, and it is anyway too rebellious to obey anyone. Solitaire forever, it digs its delicate hands earth. Nature does not like it, and never loved. That's why she was never natural but always lush and fragrant, corseted and playful. Of illusion, and that's it. It sets the goal. She fixed it remembers how much she is alive, how she is sad, and she does not care if others say it is a disease to be as sad. It never forget.
She knows that Death will pick the one morning in November.
Too bad.
All is vain, except love, and pride of a aged look and burning, never printed in the retina of the other, other. No one will forget. Mother Pain wrapped in her shawl to forget the cold.
the turning of a corridor, we will not see more than his robe. She dresses in black to be ahead.

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Syd And Me

Syd the Junkie, the schizophrenic who once shaved his matted hair completely, Syd leaping everywhere and continuously when brushing teeth its crises, Syd singing as a child, and Syd, who loved children so much he wanted his songs like nursery rhymes twisted from a former world and chaotic. Syd
the misfire, which was fired because he took drugs. Because he could no longer sing in tune. Because he forgot the lyrics in the middle of a song. Because he froze, his mind elsewhere.
Because he was a little crazy.
is the official.
Syd had the blessing of strange creatures and mythological.
Lucifer Sam the cat, Matilda's mother who tells stories, Grimble Gromble the Gnome, clowns, bicycle stolen it can not lend and few planets .... and then also the scarecrow. Its dual
, sad and resigned.
Hermit with dark curls, those girls that love to graze his hand. Hermit dark eyes, he kohl makeup, and if the eyes are the mirror of the soul, then that Syd is tired, old and mischievous at times. Tired eyes as Piper At The Gates Of Dawn .
His guitar is tuned as desired. This desire is not the neighbor. He hesitates when starting the chorus. He improvises. It is in the game Nobody really understands, except Grimble. Asked to be more thoughtful.
Whatever. In the game, despite suffering. Creation, and alone. Syd and laughs. The Madcap Laughs
.
Syd was gone, that's what we said. He may be dead, scorched by the brain as amphetamines and its chimeras. It was perhaps killed by jumping from the window of his room at the asylum.
He deserted from this we can be sure.
One day when he no longer loved life, at least over this life, he decided to stop responding. More
meet people, answer the phone more. Except to those he liked. And yet. But because Syd is a nice, he greets passers-head who tell him hello.
He had to borrow a bicycle from Emily or Jenny. Syd
the misfire, Syd has failed at everything, even his Art. On leaving the asylum, they say he continues to use drugs, they say it is bloated, it says it continually looks the same point on the horizon, like a Buddha sitting idle and lost. Sad man surrounded by flowers and bees, no longer listening to jazz because the rock gods are dead. It tries to understand the coded messages of the clouds. Her sister replied that they are only clouds. And Syd
laughs, but his laugh is sweeter.
Lucidity terrible. Wonder if ignorance is more expensive. The anonymity and a veil of dust to better listen to the lunatic who was in his head, he who chose the LSD to understand what he touched only the tip of the fingers. Syd
as an avatar of Garbo. Distance, the raw flesh and Lucifer Sam's take the boat.



It's horrible that you see me again ...
Let me be clear, I am no longer here .
Syd too sensitive and too fragile for this world. Too weird for some, too childish for others. The Engineering Thunderstruck, that's what we tell him when death opens his arms. It must say something. Syd does not care. Because he writes only for himself. Because he has not been struck. Not really, not that way. He paints and gardening, his hands stained with paint and mud. One way as another talk, communicate, because Syd, who was always taciturn, chose silence to cure his malaise. Tchaikovsky held his head when he led the orchestra.
Syd painted and finished his painting. He photographed, and destroyed the work. That alone should be important. The God of his world. This is not a point lost on the horizon that looked no more than its past flamboyant rock star and fallen who spoke to the kids as the greatest (the border does not exist) is its heart under the dust and broken wings, and clouds in the sky. And, hidden under a bush, the Gnome Grimble. Recluse, he was perhaps fortunate. I would say probably.
Syd could watch the timid world of his children's eyes and forget that one day he was a scarecrow.

There Was A King Who Ruled The Land. His majesty
WAS in command.
With silver eyes, The scarlet eagle showered silver
On The celebrities,
Oh Mother, tell me more. Why'd You Have

to leave me there hanging in my
infant air waiting?
You Only Have to Read the lines of scribbly black and
Everything shines. Across the

Stream With wooden shoes, bells
to tell the King the news. A thousand misty riders

climb up Higher once upon a time. Wondering and dreaming

.
The Words Have Meanings differ ... Yes they did "...


For All The Time Spent'm his room,
the doll's house, darkness, old perfume, and fairy stories
Held
me high on clouds of sunlight floating by.
Oh Mother, tell me more ...
Tell me more ...

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Aparté - almost a glance - fluffy.

I like rag dolls.
Those that can bend, stretch and then, those that can swing across the room, those that are up in arms to go fold, and the doll will say nothing, because it is so soft and malleable that it did not even hurt by falling, it has not moved, and not a single complaint is out of her small red mouth forever smiling.
Everyone should have a rag doll, in addition to the critical presence of the Teddy Bear, a doll with hair made of wool and rosy cheeks, a turned-up nose or a round nose or no nose all, it depends on taste. And a clown's smile and eyes far less innocent than it seems, because they are lucid, rag dolls, the Rag Dolls.
They forgive everything, as Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy or Sally, Jack's girlfriend, forgive them all, and even take-offs required in the House, Capernaum, and even arm-twisting unfortunate, and even walk upside down, and even the eyes of other dolls, those porcelain dolls Nobles.
They prefer the company of the Bears a little seedy, a little rough, they who were the first, or that of Winnie, formerly Sir Edward Bear, a little too round - but elegant - or that of the wooden puppet. And the children, as cruel as they are.

rag dolls, the Rag Dolls, with their smiles and their clown hair wool, they forgive everything.
They smile but we do not see when we get out of the closet or toy box, and we blow very gently on the little white face, to remove some dust, and then we have the idea they smile and the idea takes off, and the rag doll is watching us, and we said yes, she smiled - look at me! but we do not see it.
She smiled.

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And in my scanner, there are ...

I do not know what.
This feeling of the end that always comes too fast, and certainty of death which always strikes a somewhat random (learn to be chosen) and then the madness that is creeping into the veins those who are too sensitive or too crazy to live in this world.
younger, I prayed that it takes me to a place that looks like an asylum. It might be me carefully. Because I knew ahead of time that I was not made for this world. I definitely cried in front of bars. As I imagine my beloved Ludwig cried. The bars have been around forever. We might have found the solution to the itch, the itch is called malaise.
Maybe.
I have not been answered.
When the very first time I read the last page of the novel by Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly , sadness hit me like a leaden weight.
But it's partly my fault, I love these purposes like an uppercut. I like that it hits me. I like to smile when I am mistreated. I cry at the same time I'm sick. The first time I took a shot, I laughed. Not a blow to the soul. Not because it was new, oh no. But because it was the first time I have someone so disgusted that he wanted me to put his fist in his mouth.
There are people that do not disappoint, especially when you deny their love. And it made me happy.
I felt proud, and strong, the nose on the tarmac and hair full of mud.
That's life. Any Russian hero will tell you. That's life. I am a slave. I enjoy the most beautiful moments because they will not return. I look at the sky.
There are fewer stars this year.
There are fewer stars, long time.
We advance and when you do not expect more, is the plummeting assured. There are cockroaches on the floor, where one is certain yet been washed, and the blues in the heart, but he, we are accustomed. Maybe even in the heart, there are more, but how? It may simply be ill, too.
Right Similarly, we would like to remember when this roach made its appearance. Remember the first time we took him under his arm, and that has rocked our tears when we rocked him to his dark thoughts. We would like to remember him when we shook hands, and that he opened the door. Between here because there is no hope. Something like that.
And because dammit, I knew it would end like this. It should end like this. We try just a little more, and we miss. No need to go further, the book is written, and everything ends badly.
No lights, for anyone.
We need you to get the idea die. Learn to see your loved ones die. Learn to see the love away. Learn to debate like a fly in a spider web. You'll always be in the death of the heart, you can never heal this wound, so what? We are only wounds and corruptions.
should only be wound and pus.
We remain hooked. A substance death. And we all have a little in the veins of the substance dead. When I turn
my cigarette, I tell myself "hey it is: A little of substance death in the lungs and throat, and perhaps even elsewhere . But I am weak. And like Siouxsie sang, when the smoke rushes to my head, I can not resist .
And then what? I do not care.
I will die before the others, and these other people will say that I just had to be careful, they wave their fingers under my nose skeletal and have the appearance of Death, and they are right.
It seems that I flirt with death, and that maybe one day it will be more than my friend, and at least I got to know her. I am privileged. Few will have the chance.
Substance death and remember that you will die. Wear your skin like your stupid flag. Killing a man is nothing. Maybe those we love we take a picture one last time, on the deathbed. They will we sit, we make up, lipstick on our lips and pale cheeks. They will sit there, right next to us, lay their hands on the shoulder and say to the gentleman to take the picture.
Spent empty.
They tell us how much they liked it. This will be their last act of love. This will be the wind. They have consciousness. They catch up with what they forgot to do in the past. We always forget to do something. That something is back to face like a boomerang. And if they're the ones who die before we will put ourselves sitting on the chair.
And I say: I loved this one! I think I liked it. I do not know how. Perhaps in reality, I have always hated. The only link it to me, it was used. It was part of my world.
But damn reality.
I do not know. I want to show how much I loved him. I want to make one last card game with her. I want to show that I loved her. Just show it. I would be willing to die for it, but you know what? I lied.
I did not leave my place because I did not love her enough.
Do not forget that you will die.
Perhaps quietly, perhaps in your sleep. Maybe pushing a last gasp, his face in PILLOWS. Perhaps breaking his nose, like Janis, falling with all his weight on the ground, because the soul can no longer carry us. Maybe like Brian Jones, drowned like Ophelia, not far from where Winnie the Pooh has played. Maybe in excruciating pain.
Patience.
Patience, and we'll know.
I dream Ophelia, in my element. In water, as Virginia Woolf and as Brian Jones, but especially as Ophelia. Because water is never what it seems. Because water is Venice, Bruges, and she drags her nausea in its undertow. It
balance stones on the shore of his being, his skeleton. And these stones become sand, dust and sand will become. Jesus died for my sins, those of the past and those to come, told me.
And Therese of Lisieux was right. It to look so peaceful on his deathbed. I remember the Middle Ages. Choose the path of littleness, because you're tiny. Choose the path of littleness because Jesus loves you like that. He loves poor, helpless love it. He loves you even if you miss. He loves you every time you miss. He will love you even with your follies of magnitude. That's what my favorite priest told me.
He held my hand, stroked my cheek and told me he knew how I felt. You think you're like no other. Is not this the sum of your vanity? You're no better than the others. Even though I know there is something, deep down, that differs. And I love you with this difference.
Jesus, in His infinite mercy, forgive thee thy folly. He will forgive your slamming of doors. He will forgive your hysterics. It pardonnnera melodrama you knits. He will forgive your terrible vanity, thy faith to be the One. It
be welcoming your Love. It
forgive your hatred.
Substance death in thoughts that are not. This is already better than nothing. It always differs suicide. It is like an eagle up there. We know that strength to soar above the treetops, it will not descend. They will call us beautiful down there, we know that it's too late.
Day, recreation, it is not over. We never want to do it eventually. We want to drink till you drop.
He said: I do not want to see anyone die.
And Other answers: learn to love and know that your loved ones will die. What you've done on leaving, nobody has accused you. You forgot us.
He said he went to war as he played as a kid. The Other
said no wonder not live for you.
And I say damn, I see the world in fire and blood. It's my dream. I'm sure, then, to have an absolute love for all of you before you are memories. I'm not afraid anymore. Even if I am unfinished. Although I am ashamed to be there.
I want to see, like wolves, my neck bristled with anger, even in pain, when I climbed into the cup of Fools of Gotham.

Briggs & Stratton Governor

Say Goodbye To The forest Alice

discoveries are like Russian dolls, the famous matriochkas.
My Girlfriend rips my horizons slashing.
is how I discovered the Alice Comedies , some time ago, one day in December or November, these beads in black and white that warm the heart every time. These smaller works that we look at the evenings and winter with it, tons of memorabilia crammed into a corner of the room, right next to you on the sofa cushion.
Most often, these memories do not have names. They are just sensations that are thrown in the air then, to make them fly.

We meet Alice. Another Alice.
Alice, instead of through the looking glass, entered the studios Laugh-O-Gram and from there began a journey into the world of animation. The dream world. She was Julius, the cat who resembled Felix the Cat. She started in the Wild West, Africa, and shook hands with Walt Disney as a hello.

Of the four girls who incarnated Alice over the years, Virginia Davis is my favorite. I do not really know why. Because it was the first that I saw Alice into the mirror, maybe.
It has everything a doll.


From those we dare not touch for fear of breaking them. Those on which dust may accumulate if there were not that lively in them.
The blond curls, expressive features, a sense of comedy innate in his veins. A fire-wisp.


Virginia Davis died on 15 August.
Virginia D. said that despite his blond curls, she felt a little tomboy. Do not look for other reasons to smile.
She was the granddaughter of Billy The Kid.

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The forest is where the witches are asleep, that's where the squirrels are their cozy nests, this is The Monster that may arise after the crooked tree, and the wolf devoured the rabbit.
In the forest, the leaves speak, and it is very easy to listen to them, unless one is deaf, and again. The imagination does the rest. In fall, they cut the cord and fall slowly, and perhaps philosophy as they discuss the books by Felix Salten, life and death, and the sobs of the violins, and then on land, they die , trampled by passengers unconscious. The fall does not kill.
In the forest there is a gentle breeze, which makes the leaves sing in unison before the fall. There is the sound of the flute, and Pan's course, which sitting on the rock of the Fairy Morgana, becomes suddenly Music Master to teach younger faunas.


There are always a small wildlife for not following the music, and this is the better: it must always even in the woods. There are children who go astray and find ferns. Ferns are interesting because in addition to having a nice name to pronounce, they are pretty, and receive little affection: squeezed between two trees, they are ignored. They watch the sky, but are condemned, most often, watching the earth moist and brown, where their roots, there where the feet sink. Trees, head in the clouds, can not see everything. And then he would lower his head, and it does not happen when one is majestic. The Oak asserts: never bend. While ferns are sometimes the only show that the Forest is a vast cemetery.
In the forest, one can spend hours there. Only you can choose your pace. Nose in the air, the nose on the shoes, as slowly as possible. Avoid taking the beaten track, the grooves are too deep, and when it is time to go, we hurry on, to have sore thighs. The slightest sound from behind is a sign of danger. In
forest, there will, perhaps, a river. A river in which fish swim a few that can not be naming names, a frog, with a little luck. Of weeds everywhere, which intertwine and some flowers, like the lovers of old, will die of love. Perhaps here, Shelley, as on the banks of the Serpentine has come to sail a small paper boat.
In the forest, the children play hide-and-seek in, shouting to scare them, until one of them, the unlucky or the most foolhardy, to get caught by the witch who lay in her cauldron, and in this pot, a mixture of venom blood and serpent dove. She thought at first to transform into a rat, but it will have more to eat a piglet.
In the forest, there is the small cemetery of the Sisters, this small square graves broken between the cracks of a stone, a flower grows wild there and red. The nuns are crying alone, as they have always cried.
In the forest, one looks in vain where lives the attorney general. In the forest, the fox is silent. In the forest, there are sounds and songs that recall the word never. In the forest, the leaves die and the time has more power, the memories are forever and are hiding in the forest itself is perhaps a huge heart that beats to the rhythm of footsteps. In the forest, we remember the cry of the owl eleven we smiled to see the chimney of the house through the tree branches. At midnight, we look through the window the trees and wondering on which branch the owl was asleep. The sky is black. The forest in summer shines, literally. The forest is a vast cemetery with twisted trees when winter comes. Hidden secrets and fears that are silent, and tears that we forget to pay.
In the forest, there is a clock hidden among the trees, muffled, loved perhaps, beneath vegetation that wraps around his chiseled wood. She stops at a date, time, one year. She will never again, as precise.
The clock stopped: I'm never returned.

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Resignation

is a word that I banished from my vocabulary, my world.
This word does not exist and is replaced by acceptance.
no illusions: this acceptance is difficult to tame. It is crying in the dark. This is not work on itself, nor the fact of habit, and it is something much stronger, and more strange, that it should take a long road, a dark corridor, dimly lighted, and leave behind a few small things. Drop these things in your pocket. By losing, we must say they have been forgotten. It's like that, they were dropped, they were forgotten.
Try not to go back because you can not remember exactly which door it took. Was it the left, the right one, the middle perhaps? We balance between the three, rocking on his toes like a boat. That thorny road that leads to destruction if we are not careful. The excitement is painful and the choice is mandatory.
When we take the left door, you realize that he had better take the right one, and as the flashback is over really possible, it is permanently lost. There are only two options: crying and crying for hours, sitting in a corner and say that since everything is lost, all stop there and wait, sitting like a poor sad doll, or , be violent, slap violently, and say they will not cut down too quickly, and they bravely take over the road, bleeding feet on the warm sand of the desert. This time it will take the right door, even if it meant taking the middle one. And we have the right to cry. And there will even be obliged to weep, or duty. Something like that. Something that has a name, but we do not know which one. Tears should
be the one offering to the dead, whoever they are, and especially not to make offerings to the dead, death of the soul and heart, and desire. Do not apologize to live then, even if love deserves death even if death is a gaping hole, a scar never healed, but the hole is filled and the scar does not heal. There will envy, after a moment, in the third or fourth loss, because you never get used, to finally let go, let sail, to give up. Anticipation is the worst, most painful. But the future does not exist, until, like Achilles, a decision that our death will be more important than our lives.
Or maybe, probably, already.
Above all, never, never say " take my heart and take my breath, and take my muscles, and take my bones I is not got no use .

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The idea is approximate Worst

Rather than smoking cigarette on cigarette, I find the path of poetry to change the spleen in multicolored butterflies and too bad if the moth dies soon, another will take its place.
Sometimes it's all a matter of patience.

A teddy bear, brown faded on the corner of the pink bed.
I finally feel much in common with this plush threadbare. If I bear, I put out a costume for this excess, giant teddy bear version, so we better see how I am, the scream, and really do not see me for that, but for they see me better, even if I dream mouse to move between the cracks of any kind.
Find a seamstress that can create me an outfit of wolf or bear, just fluffy that I'm dying of heat below, in full sun, and I remember the heat bothers me.
I go out the hand of the mitten brown and threadbare and I'll tend just to say hello, and when you go back and tighten it, you will reduce the moisture one step, with a grimace of disgust. People do not like the humidity. The good people hide behind this disgust a nice healthy smile but their thoughts are like soap bubbles that could burst at needle-pricks.

Earlier, you I do not know, you told me you hesitated, you hesitated between two options in the perception you had of me, and you're asked if I was a engineering missed or retarded teenager, and you wonder if I'm not saying certain things on purpose because finally, I am perhaps masochistic, e maybe I like the danger, or perhaps that I I love you spits.
I sew my life as a thousand skits absurd and sad, and terrible, and especially terrible, the terrible, I still want more, then that scares me, and really scared.
And someone so ridiculously proud of myself that does not admit these things. But the fear is perhaps what one seeks, in the depths of us. Perhaps by attending the fear, it tames it and maybe then we will have less fear. Do not serve target. Against terror, feet in the mud.
And I answered you with that smile of retarded teenager, my child's smile that you do not guess, you had to choose the second option, and I answered that you'd better to remember that nothing lasts forever, except ideas, because love thy neighbor, love for your companion, your companion, will wither as and when, and your friends will eventually t ' forget, and your parents love you because it's like that, and what matters is the ideas, because a good and beautiful idea lasts well over two seconds. The
moment. The rest is a memory in the memory.
Have I ever said I did not want a pretty lace and pretty pearls? Me, I want this slaughtered animal whose remains smokes. An animal slaughtered and sacrificial lamb, so that someone up there, where it is, the Father Creator or Pan gives me panic, forgive me for ever to have destroyed the dawn. The first dawn of my life.
I am preparing for the worst smile if ever I'm wrong, I am preparing for the worst.
Always rub with fear, and worse. And even if you bleed so much that we abandon all our strength.
That's how it should be. Always. It should always bleed, and be in constant pain. As the nun in purgatory.

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And that night, and I try to write this game which is to write without nets, to catch all the words that fall, that have blown my brain, I guess rats because he seems to have dreamed of rats that night, but finally they were real, they ran through the attic or roof, I raised the nose of my book and I wondered what would happen if they ever nibbled walls, they will make a hole, all stacked on each other, living mountain and quivering, and one day when entering my room I crushed one under my boot, one that was torn from his mountain of flesh, as it ventured just to see the world, I would say he did not have to be there, maybe that's what I say their legs at night are falling like rain on a glass or water in the gutter, but it is not water, it's them, and after having chewed the walls, they will eat a man, the first coming, the first man, and one of them Lovera in his stomach, and another forced into his mouth, rubbing his fur on the teeth, tongue, sharpening his claws on the palate and it will become the empty socket, he devoured the eye, the place was conquered. One of the rats climbed onto my bed and told me he was sorry if he sometimes gets nasty, and I'm sorry if sometimes I'm naughty but then I may lie, but you do not care and I too.

I remember one day be out in the snow with his hands in pockets to forget that I had a stomach ache to strength not to cry, because I happen not to scream. I'm wearing a monster skin and sometimes people laugh, I do not see what's so funny in there, because my skin is at least as good as theirs. So yes, I do not know how, I do not even have driver's license, because the only time I drove, I reversed the car into a ditch, and then, I do not know how to properly dishes, because I broke a glass every time, and I do not even know politely bored because if I'm bored, I drew a mustache under a gentleman nose, and I will do so if it was you who bore me and then I'd rudely. I can not write properly, because it seems that I take illegal substances to write (and this is a serious insult to my stupidity), and then I'm selfish because I smoke and I leave this world before you but postponed my suicide does not mean that I do not like you, and I'm nasty because I do not know the answer to kindness, and sometimes I want that people, when it happens to them, are less kind to me because after they invariably think that I do not care about them, but it's just that I'm disabled and paralyzed face kindness, I am a bear, so I have a nervous gesture, and I close my eyes, very strong, often, it explains the wrinkles between my eyebrows. That hunger and denial. Here, we do stupid things that we get the greatest pride, it keeps track of it and was told we were crazy and we must never do it again, so will save the world tomorrow, and then it makes things a little less fun but are silent in a last burst of assault and was the time when we no longer felt he had much and reactivate it and I stopped at the first pain and the astonishment that followed and I'm sorry I forgot the taste pancakes Grandma.
Tomorrow night, midnight, two hours of the morning, the rats walk again in the attic and roof is a black mass and informs, it spits in the hole, she curls up in your stomach and orbits.

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an aside small cavities where the Levite

... and Fauna as well. A little note
uninteresting or unimportant, except for who knows me well.
The next film by Terry Gilliam movie I expect.
Oh, there are plenty of movies that I expect. couple with great joy - especially this one . The Imaginarium Of Dr. Parnassus has my attention, my attention terrible.

That catch my eye. It flatters my affection for the bric-a-brac and jumble, the mishmash and disorder, and polished, and the masks and games like hopscotch and then the nightmare, when one goes too far. Stories of the Imagination, sometimes corneas. Visions and Fantasy and sand blown by the Sandman. Costumes childish, moth-eaten skins of wolves and wild monsters, but not that out of toy chests and Carnival never ends. Dawn, still urgent, can wait to destroy everything.

Imaginary, forever.
Here it are mirrors, and then the Imaginarium, which resembles a theater, and Imaginarium, it should not be far from what some of us hide in the recesses of their brains boiling in their labyrinth, when s 'in dreams and nightmares go, and then the Devil has the appearance of Pegleg Ogre Tom Waits and not far off, is not far as the Black Rider who invited us into its infernal cabaret; a bet an auction and immortality, an outsider, a young woman in distress, a lie, perhaps more minor, some alcoholics and ladders planted right into the ground going up to heaven, this young man there, which borrows the trappings of the god Hermes, and then Pierrot. Son
Funambules that connect, from point A to point B. Reflecting here. And the children clap their hands.

And I absolve another thread Tightrope of my Imagination.
The beautiful video of Dead Can Dance, conducted by Ondrej Rudavsky. It dates from 1994. If my memory serves me too lacking.

And today, I add this picture. Because there is no border between This and That, to me.

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Doctor Parnassus The girl who ate the earth

The girl who ate the earth, I knew in the past.

is a story of the past. It was at primary school with the nuns and their long black robes that raised dust. When you're young and in groups, we like to give us nicknames. It's easier for us to store in a small box, below. There is the greedy who like Alcestis, will never give you a piece of his taste, the brazen, the tune that is fast because it recognizes simpers, pragmatics. Adults like us to stick labels. Sister C. told me I was the dreamer. My notebooks were always filled small drawings. But at least she added, I did not have a bird brain. I was happy as she says, because she was stingy with compliments. And then there's always the child alone. It is a constant in all primary schools, you will find this little man, this tiny woman, who wanders alone and without friends. And me, I'm having the head in the clouds, I always noticed, these children. Even when they were as discreet as possible, even if in the end, there were many children to be alone.
me, I did not need many friends. When I returned, there was my brother. Barely a year gap and so we are never alone. And when he did not play, I called my neighbor. And when she did not want to play, I ran with the dog. And when the dog was tired, I learned to play alone. Maybe I learned it earlier than the rest. Someone told me that the dreadful Karl had done during the recess, listened politely and my spirit soared. I was telling stories. I remember a dream, is stronger than all the others I've forgotten where I suddenly grew wings and I flew from the court, and the children asked where I went, and I do them say anything, I flew, far away. I also thought the last toy that I have. And tell me stories while I was talking about, unfortunately, is still the case, with 20 more years. And if that was not the inspiring story of Karl stretching at full length in the mud, it was not very interesting. Not really. So when I played ball, I was very talented (without any pride, it was the only game where I congratulated myself on my address), I always watched the lonely child, seated while the others played.
One of them was blonde with big blue eyes, translucent, so great for her age ... This girl had the plague. Touch, brushing was consorting with the Devil. 'They are real children, they are not friends with dirty children, the poor fools. They said she had strange quirks. They said so many things.
For some, I felt a little compassion. I was that kind of girl totally scared because another wept when his mother abandoned him at school. I will never forget this little boy with glasses who s'aggrippa the gate, shouting his despair. I remember laughing a lot. Others were silent. I was dumb, too, and I was content to watch. Today, I tell myself that I could, I'd perhaps go to the by the shoulder. I did not. I turned and I left. He remained alone. But sometimes, I invite them to come and play. But here, no compassion. I knew abandonment. I felt sometimes with a mission. The others, they do not look at you, ignore you, you're not good enough for them, or I do not know what else, but I see you, I'll watch and even touch your arm, and talk to you . And I know I hated you give me back the favor.
And then there are others.
But the little girl, sometimes she smiled. I heard him laugh the day I put my fist in the face Something Sandra, the daughter of the butcher, the day of the fair. A Minx without much interest. Punishment and towards the convent. I heard Sister C. tell Mrs. J. and my mother was a good lesson for the Minx, though the violence was to ban. Mom said I had inherited from his bizarre behavior. It was disturbing. A blessed day, another day in the sun, I stop to see the pick of the earth. This handful of earth, she brings to her mouth. Maybe at home, she did not eat his fill, or else, she tried an experiment, plunging his hands into the earth, with unfeigned joy. A friend who watched the scene with me let out a " but it is disgusting! .
Well, no. The little blonde girl with hands full of earth at that moment, it was sublime. I witnessed a great vision, worthy of the horrors that we were being told in the Bible Saturday morning. If I did not eat for the land, squatting and looking serious, I would never have approached.'s a witch! "whispered a voice behind. The witches, we knew it, in the corner. We never spoke of what made our lives outside of school. I'm still wondering where she lived, how it was when she returned home. she ate the earth and worms in a porcelain plate? She eats the earth or sweets, it was the same, even if eating worms would have adorned a halo inhuman that I liked. And I sailed through my friends who made perfect tripped to those who were not, and my friends with imperfect eyes full of dreams and hidden fear. Sometimes his clothes were stained. It was easy to understand, seeing his mother, that it did not care to give him clean clothes. One day cramponée to the gate at the exit, I threw a fit mother for that look black, blacker than I could give. Polite child was my only weapon against this woman too much makeup. Me, I had a loving mother and perhaps a bit too tongue - but it was better than a mom like that - and I was surprised at night, because I did not know that it offends me , saying to my mom that it was strange that other children do not have one, moms. And my mother, she just nodded, looking sad. And I know why now. His childhood dream a little crazy, she was to adopt all the miseries of this earth. She failed to succeed.
And the last day, my friend went diaphanous. She went elsewhere. Where I've never su. She offered me one night before she goes away, a small square of fabric, she had cut out a dress or a wide ribbon, scalloped scissors.
was a free gift, miserable, wonderful. She came out, his schoolbag on his shoulders too, with a final wave of his hand, and a tiny smile. The little pink handkerchief
EARTHSCIENCESSECTOR treasures in the box, one that is before my eyes. On this piece of cloth, a dust, one regret: that of having forgotten the name of the little blonde girl.

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At infinity

Given some works, I sometimes feel the Stendhal syndrome. Images that flash, move him inexplicably. They give the feeling of duplication, as though the soul suddenly left the body, the sensation of near fainting. Or much more raw, the sensation of physical effort done nothing in the stomach. I may be fragile and so I feel that famous syndrome, perhaps not as violently as Stendhal himself, or Ruskin in Venice, and I'm lying Stendhal, not only before the Italian works, oh no.
For the rest, almost - silence. Everything is known.

walk through the castle, a castle even grayer than usual today because of rain that falls and falls, running into the gutter and runs down the window pane and the gray, a rainbow sky.
one who has already walked no other reason than to walk, no other wish than to place the son of the imagination and sometimes, to calm a moment of violence, known as the one can still walk like that for hours and hours, and if you meet people, suddenly surrounded, and even surrounded, and even to speak, we realize we are one and we know that they say there has not even matter, because what is not said with fever, and sometimes the bend of the corridor that you borrow when you chose to flee, one encounters someone who looks like us and we have the urge to touch his shoulder to tell him we're here. Even if he or she cares. And then, when we recall a phrase of the author ever read, because you only read this sentence, and just by chance, and it is surely a tragedy, we understand what love is, and is loving someone more than yourself , and when the truth hits the heart, then we can make a clean sweep.

Then we can go outside, see how trees grow. Grandma, you had to teach me to sow seeds at the foot of the tree to see the flowers bloom in summer as you promised, but you forgot to younger than me, before I forget thee.

And it's raining. Even stronger. Drizzle and downpour, as the poets say.
Long hours wandering through the maze inside, watching the window, playing the oldest game in the world called Make Believe.
And when it's gray in the Attic, we say that the best thing to do is to get buckets in the cellar, and then pretty bowls and earthenware pots to collect water droplets. And when it's gray, the maze can sometimes turn into a prison. But I prefer my
Maze Prison, which sometimes becomes, in a gilded cage in any How happy place in this world.

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I want Monster. ..

and nothing but monsters.
I do not want nice monsters who take me on their shoulders from day one.
I do not want any monsters who understand and offer a handkerchief on the second day.
I do not want to be an object to which it comes. I want to be intrigued and interested enough to go to them.
I do not want this one has an ice cream cone in hand, I want him to have scissors.
I do not want the other to tell me that everything will be fine, but it tells me that nothing is fixed.
I want him to sleep under the bed and slap it against the mattress if I move in my sleep. I want great
Hairy monsters, horned, one medium for one, two on each temple to the other, head of goat or dragon and lion-tailed, fish tail, and wolf teeth, gaudy or earthy, black as Satan. I want Monster.
A fantasy.
Pan and an army of fauns. Men and animals-goats to play the scapegoat. And coming into town, they destroy everything. There might be a unicorn, which would attract to itself all the little virgin. She tells them a story, because they are rare, mothers who tell stories to their children. I was told there were. Maybe. I want
Monsters make me afraid to first meeting, and that makes me laugh a second, and to which I cling to the third and forever.
Monsters who I want when I turn, threatened to eat me because they are sad.

last fantasy that is not me. I regret that. Spike Jonze and little Max Maurice Sendak, who has already come to visit me here .
Just wanted to post these images, in addition to the rest.

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They are funny,

these needs to write.

A visceral need to shout something, write it by pressing hard on the mine. And then nothing happens.

Nothing, nothing, nada, and zero. While that step behind the temples and behind the rib cage and the hand that serves the pencil until it hurts. Usually, that's how it works. And yet, nothing happens, as if all the sap had been caught, or worse, torn from my womb. The gods answered me when I asked for a little rest. The gods do not want me to make my burden. Is it Pan? They took away the words and the urgency and there is more than empty, that is where we lost and where we are drowning and we're trying desperately to fill. Because it's gotta be a way. I was told that there was always a means. Where my gaze falls, I see only sadness and death or suspected, and then ...

These two photographs of Bernd Preiml me back in the Attic. Without him, I know how the story would have ended, the plunge in ice water. It must be cold this time of year. I like these purposes like an uppercut. When the expected, it provided the plunge.
So, an old house, and another sister, certainly less important than the other, called Merricat Blackwood. She lives in the moon too, she can talk to animals, especially cats, she knows her pocket as poisons, and at night it becomes perhaps a werewolf.

Merricat like it. And the house-castle, before it burns like this. The photographs of the living and the dead on the wall, some ghosts to shake our hands as a "good clock" rather than "good day", and then stuffed animal. I do not know if Merricat home, there was this bird, but with me yes. And it frightened me at night. I do not know who had this gift. Perhaps only when the moon will enlighten, he will live. Maybe he does need that the gaze to awaken. All these birds of many colors, ready to pounce on me and wrap me their shadows.

I remember the pleasure he is not out. Do not leave. Stay there. Forever, perhaps. I shut the door the evening double-turn. Sometimes I would never reopen. Except for forest walks. Or elsewhere, somewhere where the brain is consumed, if still possible anywhere else. I have dreams in my head. Do not wish a happy new year, because I do not care. Merricat often has the urge to spit on people. But as she is well educated, she is content to kill imagination. And she has the heart suddenly much lighter, having exterminated so many people. They can continue to hum along the way, this rhyme pretty and cruel, or force her to watch them, they no longer exist. And there's nothing worse for these people, to speak in a vacuum, without an ear to pour in their venom. It's maddening. Especially adults. Children forget.

Merricat once it closes the doors of the house, her and Constance, she smiled. She hugs him and tells him how much, but now they are happy. This little lady said that Constance is pretty and young, it deserves a revival. She deserves to go out and see the beautiful world and fall in love, because it is bound to fall in love. When I look at this woman who told me that she fell down dead. Which is a shame, a shame is that she does not know.
funny dream last night. I was fine. I walked alone, barefoot in the embers, and everything was nothing. It will not change much from the outside world, that some call the real. In this void, I would lose in passing a few things I like. It's like in games of chance. No more. Despite the courage and all that crap, vomit words. And be afraid of going to bed, then.

And then? That's life. That's life said
my grandmother. A kind of resignation that I liked. Because I was cruel, I liked the show sitting on her bed and say "that's life . And she looked down. That's life and how it is. Discouragement - the despair - in all its glory and I have eleven years.

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Nobodies

And as stray cats, and because children with bunny ears and the rain that falls. If I could arrange the time, the rain fall all day.

Some things are very ugly. Perhaps only through the rain, they would see the beauty in horror. And horror in beauty. Like a turnstile.

A Xenia, the cyclone has destroyed everything. The worst disaster I've ever seen said Nixon.

And the hurricane, once spent, does not always mean Renewal. When the hurricane passes, it sometimes has enough power to continue to pretend, pretend that the neighbor to know that no, we did not lose our courage, we are still brave before. It can happen on good days. And then there are bad days, and when the cyclone passes through these bad days, his shoulders sagging and it is the signal to the neighbor: I have no strength. Abandoned me there.

So in Xenia, who were in the good days are gone. Let west and start again, before now is a blank page, amputated a few years. Forget. Those who have cars are gone, and those who have families have left, and those who had better things to do are gone. They all left after seeing the girl and her skull shattered. They are all gone, except the dregs of humanity. Left out, the ugly, the failures, those who had lost everything, even before the hurricane passes, and deficient, and the albino killers of cats.

While in Xenia, we pass the time as can be. Here is one circles of Hell. Xenia is forever doomed. It is born, you live there, die there. It does not escape, except by making bubbles in the bath. It is the city that people bypass property for failing to cross, and not having to see those dirty mouths, these uneducated who walk their spleen.

A dead cat, two cats dead, kill the third and Let's take him to the butcher. He must eat, and besides, we get paid. And another, to be paid, actually one, prostituted his disabled daughter. This is outrageous, so what? She may do not even realize what was happening. Perhaps. Two sisters, twin-haired White almost lost their black cat. He cries in the arms of the man next to him, this man who, like Sammy Davies Jr., combines the defects: dwarf, Jewish, gay and black.

In the street, garbage. Small bikes rolled onto the sidewalk. A boy, his nose glue. Another proudly shows off his muscles. These two others, mini cowboys Babylon, belch and break everything in the landfill. And the little guy with bunny ears and his body lean, which seems not to have eaten for days, and urinating on cars and playing the accordion, and gives a kick on the mesh. Silent for ever, perhaps, shivering, his cigarette between his fingers. He shakes with cold, or he trembles, because it is never witnessed these dead souls and sleepy, who do not know where they go, what they want, which survive without having really envy. And that's worse than anything. Lack of desire to die. And now he

nothing happens. It's like in life, or in some lives of some people. A life with many chapters, some are more annoying than others. We would like to go faster, faster as you turn the pages of a novel. You can not. It's infuriating. Many people think their lives are busy, but they have not woken up they live the dream. And when they awake, it's worse. They cry.

The little guy in the ears of rabbits can live, dream and he knows. As proof, he died under a hail of bullets imaginary. Reality, imagination. The environment does not exist, and the medium is not always fair.

In the sordid, sometimes there is beauty, especially when you do not make the offering a tissue because you will cry or scream because you're going, it's all too ugly anyway, you close your eyes. The Nameless are desperate people. Mouths shattered and grandmother on her hospital bed who no longer lives even though it breathes, and the prostitute lingered in bed, with her pretty white dress, she looks like a princess abandoned a story that no longer tells the blonde shopgirls stick tape on their nipples little girls and forget the big bad wolf, black and ivory skin, and this other case the chairs to fill the void in her soul, because almost everyone here, have only to say the violence things, and this embrace between two souls and one will end in tears, is ugly and beautiful, and it touches the heart, and only if it was lost once in the so-called real life . If others vomit, what Big deal.

they vomit. This will be the thorn in their hearts, while others will envy it rains a little more. Small, when it rained, I thought God was crying and I looked at the sky. He cries in front of the heart twisted and sterile men, women, ridiculous puppets, and dead cats, and lost children, and especially these last two, because there are more differences between a stray cat soon death and a lost boy. Yes, God weeps over the mistakes and regrets and hearts that are no longer moved by anything, hell on earth and the devil is in first class. God is experienced as others try to experiment words, the camera, and their thoughts. Sometimes there are failures. There are mostly failures. Failures and rambling stories, which nevertheless tend thread on which imaginary tightrope walk. As always. Capernaum disenchanted tend toward chaos rather than order. Not because it's funnier. But perhaps there is more room. For the heart and open arms to another, to remember that the mundane can be beautiful, to quote Diane Arbus, because there are sometimes bright, real, those who laugh. When there's nothing else to do, that the despair surrounding the despair and self-absorbed, are evil, and we have no explanation to give, there are only two solutions. Hiding the eyes, ears clog and close the mouth, or shake a bit more in the rain.

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I hear often when talking about duchesses in Bavaria, the five Roses of Bavaria, the most "frightening" among them, despite the romantic films and pink, was my beloved Sissi.

Simple perception.

she dresses in black, she has a ring with the head of a skeleton, a needle to inject cocaine, it Fuye the world and men and that emerging from a dream, she was surprised to be alive, but that is enough for some people to find it decidedly too special to be pleasant. Not consistent with what they know about her. So what they perceive as supposed madness, it puts them well uncomfortable.

And yet, if I had to choose one of them would be at the frontier of this malaise, it would be Sophie.

Sophie, considered as almost normal, if that word had a meaning. It never ceases to praise its sweetness, his understanding, his selflessness, his strength. And sacrifice, the strength, it was this day of May, which proved fatal. And courage for this little woman, agree to stay put and accept a horrible death, and her dress catches fire while she remains upright, hands clasped in silent prayer, and those flames which surround of infernal aura.

Thinking that others find morbid.

When I burn a small thing in an ashtray, and the customary thing to me, I always think to Sophie. The fire, wherever it comes, I always find fascinating. So maybe it is morbid, this dream, princess pink cheeks and blue eyes, blue that the sky may have a perfect summer morning.

That may be because the morbid strangeness of Sissi, the tempestuous force of Mary - Mary, and only one person is a heroine of the novel - are obvious, they forget to look on Mathilde and Helen, the first is cleared as the sparrow, and the second is too severe, and Sophia, which will almost borders on sainthood. Beautiful Icon, reclosing the book. Once was enough.

But how can we not realize that while it is angst and anxiety? Why not see the fragile line between the child and the woman who melancholic writhes violently hands ... ? There is, in my perception, a gap between what has the Duchess of Alencon, and what it hides in the recesses of his soul.

Sophie was born one cold February morning. In winter, like Elizabeth. It appears always absent, soft, compared to her sisters. It was always this vision of her unfortunate lover abandoned by her Prince (Ludwig), and since, melancholy devours her big blue eyes.

Child, Elizabeth melancholy underlies. She sublimates some of his poems childish. Death, already impregnated with words. She revealed to As the days and nights of Sissi, this melancholy, and she must already have suspected it will be one of her best friends. Chez Sophie, melancholy runs through his veins from the first day of his life. And more pain. Already, she gets lost. So when Ludovika, his mother told him to calm some people suffer more than she and her daughters had no reason to complain, lament and Sophie wrote in his diary, "she thinks it will soften my pain. But instead, how to be happy when so many souls are suffering more than me? "

A little soul as lonely and empath her sister winter. Never at rest. Sophie picks up something, famous open hand, fingers spread. All ran. When she has something she guessed before anyone else that this thing will not end for her. When Ludwig him to lay flowers on the desk of his piano at night, and that the whole household of this pretty ecstatic gift of the Eagle already vanished into the mountains, it is the only one to understand. " Do not you see he loves me not? .

When she attends, even though she is betrothed, the photographer Edgar Hanfstaengel, she still worries. Fad love ... and he must, of force, despite she must have felt relief at failure of engagement, to forget what people are sure to say on his way, and shame in a little redness on both cheeks for not being up to the referred to his mother, Queen of Bavaria missed.

No wonder, then, whom she married, quickly, too quickly, to forget the mistakes, the Duc d'Alencon. Sophie is already tired. With Ferdinand and his profile as that of an eagle, happy marriage is said. But Sophie rubbed shoulders with the clouds and it made a cocoon.

Her husband will be patient. Good and sweet. She does not like maybe not. He loves it. It is a military course, who loves a soldier, but he knows ill-being of his wife. So he wrote in his letters that he will do anything to tear this pain in her eyes ... even if he does not always understand. And he takes her to Italy, is to lay flowers on her bedside table, waking up, this will be the most comforting visions. He would like to see her smile.

But Sophie is still in the shade and mist. Always midwater, eyes lost in the wave, as on these faded photographs of the time before. Marry the one she missed, past the age of 20, she will not look anymore, or rarely the goal. When it does, violent sensation of encroaching on his soul, as Ludwig and his gaze rests elsewhere. These are two big eyes gnawed by anxiety. Sophie Water is both clear and abysmal. Clear because its sensitivity because it hides nothing. His emotions, his sadness, his melancholy. And yet she will never have to provide explanations on this discomfort. The younger sharing with Helen, the eldest siblings, this form of resignation that makes everything stand in silence, as if she had opened the book of life and she knew the next chapter. This resignation that will make him say in a whisper in Sissi, one night " I think we're not happy the race. "Elisabeth, who has leafed through the book, already knew that.

While Sophie is apathetic, lost in gloomy thoughts. Anecdotes abound, image Reccurent a slim young woman lying on a bed, staring at the ceiling. It seeks. God is its goal. But then we forget the extreme violence they can show. One day, Louise, his daughter, says Sissi. The child says her mother, angry, rushed into his room one night after a word after she thought inappropriate. The unkempt hair, like a Medusa, fists clenched, wild-eyed, ready to pounce on her daughter for slapping her. Then shouting, Louise took refuge in the bedroom of his father. He is sitting on the bed, his eyes full of tears. Louise feels deep affection for him at that moment. Sophie enters, quiet, and goes on these words: "You are very the daughter of your father . The violence of words is a thousand times more devastating. The case shakes

Elisabeth enough for it to take the pen and wrote a poem. She condemns his junior. Therefore, the close relationship the two sisters to fade, slowly. Sophie does not find more favor with Sissy told. What is perhaps not quite true.

She likewise condemn when in 1887 the wife of 40 years will flee after a long correspondence with Dr. Glazer, leaving spouses and children:

You have ceased to be loyal

To your good master and husband.
Thou hast pierced the heart;
Yes, heavy is your sin!

So gentlemen in white coats lock Sophie in the cell of an asylum, and rattling of the key in the lock. The thing is normal for an adulterous woman and guilty. Sissi, who flew to the rescue of Mary during her escapade love, strong double-turns too, the door of his heart. She complained. That is all.

Karl Theodore, the favorite brother behind his desk, the ticking of the clock begins to wonder if they have not all a little touch of madness in the family .

Sophie seeks the hand of God, and goes to pray in the churches. We tell her she is beautiful, kneeling and silent, it does not reveal, otherwise than in his diary, and it falls down for not having them talk to these people. Like when she was little.

Sophie is a round face that thins over the years. Quiet smile, but his eyes devouring her face, you can not see them. Something sounds wrong. The Duke loves him. Be blessed my Sophie, for all the happiness you bring . She senses. She wrote her will. It does not really know why. To a friend, she wrote that she did have long to live. The Father Stanislas visit before she goes to the Charity Bazaar, it repeated three times " goodbye, Father .

A Sophie stiffened. Too violent a desire for normality, the risk of nibbling his soul. It is force. Do not drown in the waves to l'âme too stuffy. Intoxicating. That is my impression. Sophie Anony distributes money to the poor, and Sophie, after her escape, is loyal and faithful and loving, and Sophie will go in calm and silence, all the girls in the fire, and this little Countess of Beauchamp as bad luck or fate condemn, she pressed her to his heart. But the mechanism is broken. Something in that look, is hidden.

Bourcet Margaret says she is relieved. I'd like to believe.