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.

Targus Replacement Cord

09/09/2010, 03/09/2010

the actor as a man and the spectacle of the people.

Man does and survives and goes on his way to go man. You do, you will be spotted here and for the value of the fact recognized by many judges and paid for by some. Do and the audience present in every life. They come in a twin, are interdependent and together the people who actually Actor. As a result, the actor is a very special man, a double Lottchen fact.

The activity is a result of personality, it is said that it was the reaction to a complicated back and forth from the inner world and outer world. Why not? But why, if the cards are in their own lives so often mixed in another hand, speak of a life with a character, and why are hoping to himself and his friends ever to know well?

We may in our lifetime a body and a Name and very own quirks, but they have already happened is something unforeseen and our behavior no longer visible again. We are capable of this deviation, is in the service of our lives, as if it is to point out that we are just not immovable originals, but actors - people who live by roles, and even if one is a sweetheart, in improvise or change the plight of others can. There is nothing embarrassing. It is indeed playing, but still playing themselves, of the road. Such is the seriousness of life.

The interplay of inner and outer world, which is the inner drive that is in the middle of our heart and we continually the book trade by which we write as we play on the edge of the heart for it and at the same time we sit back on its surface, and judge. There are two bilateral relations in us. One between the author and the actors, a beating between the actor and the internal audience, but never, perhaps only when the heart stops, is the author made the internal audience. The theater and its Trinity takes apart and institutionalize what is already united in each individual and makes him a perpetual motion machine. It depends on where it moves. The water that the paddle wheels of our mobile fallen, by itself overcome rising Channels once achieved, will turn with time, and depending on where we drive differently.

An actor without an external audience, or a man without his inner, is, as it would thus be compelled to any iteration, the original man - for man is "one. To introduce such, we would have to go to our depth. Who is this black lump of us? He is never quite seen, because he sold only. Just as the sun shines and fades, we never see in their core. This is not to store, as the actor who we are, after all, equipped with its own audience, and to eternal sighting of itself compelled. What we do have to do is not to derive derivatives of the original - after all. Self-reflection, as we understand it, so there is not more than thought. And in it a vague acquaintance is possible. As a critical observer of the roles to develop, we are allowed to draw conclusions, which can detect the outlines of the shadowy self. Here we can like what we see or not. We throw roses on the stage, or eggs, shout, laugh, cry, and wet, so we whipped or caress the hidden actor and the invisible author - in this way, we wind at our happiness, by the relationship between these parts of us, always an activity. First of all this come in second place to our friends, our listeners and fellow players as an audience to the outside world into the game, but they have as opposed to the interior of audience, a more direct line to our innermost being, which is because everyone only himself such a blinding sun , but not the others.

When both actors is duplicated, both the drama and the audience. Of the art forms that life has no such duplicated, like the theater, however, and the film. Not everyone schriebt, not everyone reads, not everyone paints, and just think, at least not in the institutionalized way the art, once the word is spoken, the artist, or the philosopher imposed. Whether artists or not, everyone lives and plays, whether actors or not. So the theater is the most immediate of many processing and artification "the fact that we are doing all , and our lives, talk, jump, sing, think - so just like in the theater.

So by the actor, and how he sold more than he thinks (which is equivalent to the letter) to recognize and executive nature of that part of us which we are the most conscious.

Internally well-connected people can well, improvising from day to day, as on stage - but they need not theater, to be good people.

And what is his double play from the actors? Probably not more than one person, with the madness of his peers. So the question is rather: For making this game a double man? Which creatures are, therefore they are actors, people? There are those who got lost inside the crowd. It is either dumb, or it has left the theater, and left only the usual suspects in the seats: the sleeper, the thrower, or the screaming. In response to one of three in order to wake him or to return to scream, plays the actor, and as one of the three, he thinks.

all this is indicative of the writer, the actor better invisible with its author, as his close inner audience gets along draws, thus only trivial from the depth and of the monologues he hears himself speak on stage , but become quite deaf but has been qualified in a bored audience to the inner spirit of his erection of habitable castles in the air.

Presario V6000 Coprocessor What Drivers

Berlin, Berlin

left the rails, five floors below. The trains can be heard through the thick glass hardly what The authors here have certainly brought to the monorail that runs through her now red text.

also before me a dozen desks, behind me. Each one, two or three basins wide and anchored to the ground. Now, these are real jobs, or job, free as in any company, but it charged academically - for every even similar to any case for students. Anyone who takes his work somewhere, anywhere else does, just as in the university library is obviously not like this go unnoticed. The rest and concentration with us a place befliesst with sediment. Granular comes with. No one who is not brainless, can continue while the coat the world to escape presents us. The less the artist.

first offered to me at this little table as an enclave in which I finally can do everything. Build castles in the air, especially as everyone else. I sit and watch. I think and I work. Thus, filling the freedom until it is gone. At this point the body is replaced by the people he has surrounded himself with his mind and it starts to drift. This is the ideal constitution of the worker: A body on intellectual air cushions: Quick and agile, with self-renewing gas. In the company takes over another at the helm. Others may itself

To my right, the rows of books, the actual library. She swallows the sounds. In fact, I cough, and she takes it away from me. I began to hate books too. The objects, like ants, just as the literature. Thousands of enemy invasions for readers and writers. And the finest expression of weak-mindedness and self-love of good people. I wish the literature would be inhuman. It always shine the moist lips, the silly face or the arrogance of the writer through the text, if not all three, always at least one of them. To him also liable not only the filth of men, but also of his crazy parents and grandparents. Books are a mirror for the current state of disaster that affected the world since the people added. Libraries and archives are in favor. You have to be to fly in every way. Small, fine in the dirt, but not dirty.