Watch Episodes Of Los Hombres De Paco Free Online

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 .