Stomach Virus Going Around In Ny 2010

23/12/2010, Gachnang

who stares into the net, who is among people who stare into the net, who only has his regular newspapers, magazines and broadcasts reads and hears, knows, there are no more descendants, it only filters help, archives, and eventually forget. And who these days wants to be aware, the encounters with the information accessible and the accompanying question pair. I leave myself to one? What do I do that? Visible information, whether voluntarily or not demand a response to their presence - and that includes from the one who wants her to discard only, nothing more than a Tate, an effort. The Gehüpfe my company is very well understood. The chatterbox, which affected the world has come in the form of a mad become Robin Hoods, therefore, of any information on the picks and he stumbles away to the rich, but also to the poor and the dead, then all the creep out of their palaces and tombs and alleys to somehow to deal with it. And as they crawl out of their palaces and tombs and alleys, the wind sometimes closes a door behind them and then come around kings not to go to cabins, septic in palaces and many a dead man in a new life. So play like before our eyes, this miracle, they moisten our parched faith with the sacred water of progress. And as our all progress, is also this one, to a Art by God. Until his feet until they touch our lips and we kiss into the void. My company is dancing so in the electric light ahead of the saving soulless, opens the eyes, ears, mouth, nose, buttocks and makes what hue to occur - with abandon, but no, not without it to evaluate it, not without to draw conclusions, not without reason not to act on the mental addition, and no, not to flutter like flags without the hurricane, focusing on resolving the ends.

And the barren heaths, roll like the hedgehog?

They have to contend with the fact that if harnessed, they have to their bodies with each impacting information again in the will to defeat it, defend it and those morsels which they love and shiny seem, and as they are then contrite open a gap far, they shall be stoned. As the flag flutters in it, will roll the rolled up hedgehogs out from the wind and as he presses his face into his belly, painted his head off, what happens outside of it. It differs as the seeing of the blind to enter the luxury provided by images of the world with information, rather than homemade. But we do know it but do not want to see: only the best are doing at home, it tastes really good. On the other hand, chokes you, too happy on behalf of gay dogma.

But what now? What to do?

If my company is a whore, I want to be a castrato, and yet when it comes to perverts, and I still refuse her, then this should be no end, on the contrary, an act it has to be: It is the walk to the basement. And where there is none, as it is dug. Thus one encounters perhaps to mate.

Distended Stomach After Hernie Surgery

20.10.2010, Berlin

True, we are the whores of habit and the revolutionaries can not have it otherwise. What is new, feels differently. And before it's ever so far, you have to rush To leave and feels for the person who wants nothing than that, like haste. If a long-time prisoner is released, he may be allowed to tell a story of which he knows that he better keep to yourself. Also, the pyromaniac could tell how many times he takes far too early match of the fuse and run, out of respect for the longed-fire, which he can only put it as a dud in the earth. Namely overcoming register by itself. They do not advertise the fact that they shed, and that it can grow new, but with the sheer power that makes this possible. What we and our sensitive Dogs smell it in the October air, no Geisterbote but our good experience. She knows long before we get down to work, to require the energy of each transition, it was a step, it is a leap, or a great new idea which, as it aufbindet is our passion, the same implement applies. Yes, the will is the way, but only just approaching them thing. Then, if in anticipation of Kaventsmänner sits in the boat, you have to be first come upon himself. And it takes courage and courage is very tied to the faith, and faith only just floats in the air, and in the air just flies all sorts, one crashed into the ground soon, and then you know where you stand, and is definitely not much. Therefore, we can tear us from the shore, we can teach a better, save our own sense of failure to accommodate it and, quite by accident, the practical community. It held the life, even that of the fantastic vortex, which brings it with ignorance instead of barbs, an attractive rate. But the desirable excesses are held in long staked fields, for example, the career, wealth, happiness, or art. Among the things to which we aspire for a lifetime, the few possible routes are given. Let us sit down to catch but once around, or we return to even the suffering and poverty are no limits, because with these Things you can not deal, and if you do it, then from above, or so, which one soon after it dies.
Thus one is in bed and dreams of a better world. Thus one is in bed and tells how you would have liked. Thus one is in bed and imagines how it would like it to all. Thus one is in bed, wondering who you are, but if you yourself is lying in bed. catch

Holland And Barratt Tan Tab

09/22/2010, 16/09/2010

try the confusion with their fluttering paper, the ink ribbons in the wind, so all sorts of questions come to their open ends are at. As you while running the fire on the wrong track, they ask it thus: What should I spend my life? Then burn the confusion to already, and glows slowly to the core, washed his Zappelglieder down slowly, first the hair, very quickly, then the skin burns brightly like a wick in the fat of the meat, then the crackling bones, slowly smolder and char them , then disappear the last stumps, and only shortly before the tubby heart burnt, there clarity about what causes suffering and then resolves the confusion.

It's too late for a naive life. The questions are asked, ordered the escort to death.

The first reason of the will is broken off early like a cork, and infected now, along with the universe in the large bottle. With the will is the deed, it is the second reason. With her first start in life, and every passion.

I think since I can read. Since that time moving to oversee the limit moment of my fading memory. Several years and many books were there anyway. This reading was already beginning primitive intellectual influences, nothing noble. For example, my romantic superstition and mysticism-my pleasure. Certainly I do not read because it is fun or knowledge, I will therefore , not because I was told time and again, I therefore must - first the book was easy in the hand, then it made that impression on me, on the I took in with him.

First, the books were then in hand. I suggested then mostly on reading. I read superstitious to end, nonstop and suffering to not even this world again and again to see in fragments and I read constantly and suffering to the history of Judaism in the words of Hananiah's, my comrades are next door, not again, not again to listen to, and I constantly read and suffering because I am the beats of the title and the cover of the books to forced, otherwise I would have any unread side need to reinvent themselves. Read instead of write. Later, one must then write sometimes, instead of reading. Because the number of sets solved after all these years in the head from the sides of the poor authors decompose gather and begin to impose themselves as other stories - so you can become a writer: As copper pressure relief valve of the spiritual library. Then you sit in front of the keys and looking for a pool.

But I do not write.

also heard too much music - so become a writer. Musician and Writers, despite the cold strangers in their mutual admiration almost the same, which explains why it is very rare to meet in one person. The painter begins to paint even after he already painter!

But I do not write.

And reading my passes. Everything is still visible, and everything is yet to be written - it is impossible to cope. What is meanwhile handled the vanities and nonsense, this is verkunstet and jacket made in which one looks ridiculous. Any new text added to the blacklist of pure thought of the dogs picked up and from dog catcher now published again to make good, by the author, the reader and the operation of the combines are cleaned.

Who if not we should write this as pure text, which makes us institutionalize the texts again and again? Who writes the lyrics that make up the idea of literature and not their morass, the texts that we believe the old way can and give hope ? Who ever wrote this? The author does not, he was not sure. When authors stand behind texts, which they almost always do, you can see them on the edge of their lyrics are, right in the right corner of the page below. There you'll see them on their page numbers, balances and waving their handkerchiefs fumble. This distracts terribly.

One should never give his book, page numbers, then it is not necessary and the balancing of the vain author figurine, it falls within the abyss. And must be deep enough to make it possible crashes when it reaches the bottom. The author has no role in the literature, he should not have! The question was raised after the man, and then whether to anything he has written. A man has to say something is not enough. Who has something to say should say it simply. Who has to write something that can write.

I do not say much. And I do not write!

The person I'm confused her quest for other versions, before me a copy of all others together. The arbitrary window once you had got to the metallic touch of the many that stuck out behind the exhibited goods desired, a mirror-like luster. So everyone looks the other to see what he wants, mostly for yourself - And one even in himself, all the others. What have I done to be like I am, is to say: Who is that I have to do to make me? Today more than ever, that look to us in every moment. The hordes of visitors, a chaotic social circle. So there now no longer simple complex person. The individual loses its complexity in the hall of mirrors, but slip into the multitude. That we have a single body, begins now to find the mental illness to the dilemma for the modern man. Each of us can be like a paper cut are pulled apart and evolve into a society that is as wide as those who found him and he just happened. Professional, and fool mother and father were here, everyone is a spirit of an old time flat, "super flat", but in large numbers. Everyone has it to be any in itself, and not only the farmer's son, the cripple, or the murderer, when one is born.

But in whom to appeal is made, at the hour of need? From whom in me, I prefer the text is to write, if the keys just a secretary, a fool? From the writers of the reflected to me? For the entrepreneur who Reflects on me? From the craftsmen, which is reflected in me? From the car salesman, a waiter, the bookseller, from all good friends that are reflected all about me? What a monster it will be when one throws a stone at its disk, as in the fragments of the eyes of the Other as mirror-coating compound eyes and her arms as tentacles ...

But I will not describe it.

make order out of his variety to another man, the many flat images are superimposed to give them scope. So close together then the author of the one is, the carpenter and the cook of one is also the mother of son who Vatermöder and the gay one, the one is just no longer be seen as a single, return as the spirits that they are all back into the bottle of the ego. It happens automatically every night during sleep. Therefore, the first few hours after waking are well suited for Eigeneichung. During the day we tumble apart during the battle in our eingebeizten items, the evening we are a congress of capitalists. Wicked beat them each other down in order to be powerful. These figures, one can not allow our books to write for us, most recently the author, it is not suitable at all.

So I do not write. I write not so. That's why I do not write. Leave me not to. I write not so. So I do not write.
I do not write.
I do not write.

I do not write.

Battery Access On Rite Temp 6036

Berlin, Berlin

in a bag without air,

reserves the onion its fragrance.

There, they cook their own juice,

tap water would take 'her only strength.

The onion is a shell animal,

a vain vegetables, like us.

Why is it only because we taste so bland?

Should we perhaps put in a vacuum bag?

My friends are young as I

romp and mostly without me. die

While their inner shells,

they may share greater.

Then they spin threads from which hang hook

and learn again to know new people.

And because this all come in the way of creating a network -

Sun crawls along slimy threads of the work of art now.

Here is the Merciless for us people of this great time:

In the Flood loses any part of his own mind.

Is not that the world is indeed in the earth,

the worm in the cloud but is replaced by a professor?

Among people begin to stick my thoughts

It is hard for me to see me even here yet.

In bed the other hand, dream I'll sit me with others,

at a round table, excited with flashes of wit:

verkaften Would we at least the demons.

we could lease more of our happiness right!

For their attacks on our intelligence,

gives us a bad social life efficiency!

Now I wonder whether it makes wise,

this with the onion and its juice.

For who cooks in itself is soft and dies

off the company, meanwhile corrupts itself.