Orange Bed Skirt
April is a month since UltraProductive, but clearly not a month of moving. In the small room can not be even the bed, and I refuse to let go of my bed. But April is also a month of solutions. The Cosmic Boy is released to the pool and suddenly I feel it is my pool. So much so that when my mother asked for my degree of impairment on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd say 0. 5. So much so that in May no voice shakes me to talk about it. May is a month very efficient, with a precious gift in the form of Desigual orange bed skirt and a promise of more small but meaningful gifts with Mandongo (long live the familiar language of shampoos, ciertopelos, elephants, bullrings, and Mandongo . Ea) with nap (just as the boy and also providing the needed and both need time and space coordinate, particularly the latter), back pain, yes (although I dream things, then neither is rare), wanting to see people, and the resulting panic and discover reckoning that will end in Alprazolam a holiday. From all this, I'm (well skirt, of course) with solutions that are unanimous and they sound great but they promise to slow (better, reaction time) and I have to change their way of counting sheep. The other day huddle and grandmothers knitting appeared on billboards and so, gentlemen, no one sleeps. In reality, then we no longer know who they are and 90% of this newspaper dubbed already know, so just ask you respect, and a basic rule: who does not like, you click on "Close Window" . Thank you. . . I had good results. Two possible masterpieces are looking ahead and I'm overwhelmed by the shapes and colors used. I never did something so beautiful. From the stained cloth, I get the impressions that I hope viewers feel also. My eyes eagerly absorbed what they, without thinking, they come. I am completely satisfied. The sun is no sun. Rub my feet against each other to remove a bit of cold that took me by surprise. I got lost in your colors, I think, while watching the blue and orange bed skirt printed on the utopian reality of my painting. Just in time. With its smooth ride and long orange bed skirt comes one that brings the substances that are fifty percent of my weaknesses. Ah! If not for its wines, never find a sense of belonging to this world. Today my world smells like chicken bones, some potatoes, oregano and tomatoes. Tomorrow, who knows. Perhaps cassava and spinach . . . maybe quinoa and squash. But each spoonful reminds me of the best beats of the heart. While the hot liquid passes through my esophagus, my eyes fill with tears. Each of the sacrifices I went through to get where I am today. Each of the smell of homemade bread hugs from my mother. Each of the aromas of freshly cut grass poppies and the life I left behind one day. Each scoop is a memory that sticks in the knot of a closed throat with emotion. The stock . . . It is a ritual that never loses its magic. Different tastes, different memories, different weight of tears. Always the same carrier of renewed faith. Always the same room. Always the same time. The last bucket. I finish my soup with disgust, I have to wait until tomorrow to return to enjoy the embraces of my mother, the grass in my garden, the flowers of my little Lilian. Disappointed, I resigned. On a small table, a coffee waiting for me. That attentive. In this and drink it alone. I take the cup back to the chair. This time, I cover my feet with a blanket. The aroma fills my nose and my brain goes up, touching my temple. I like it. Feel my lips against the porcelain warm feeling it gives me protection. Never quite understand why. Even now, the utopian in blue and orange bed skirt really catches my attention. I focus my eyes on her and smiled. It is what it should be no more. In my tongue, the sweetness of the coffee completes the ideal simplicity of my current life. Drink the last sip. Now if I'm ready. With my hot body for the two most humble brews in the world, I turn to my bed. On the way I let my hand gently touches the cup calling me an apple to bite. Red, the silhouetted on the corner of the table. I leave. For now, enough is enough. I smile again. Beside the bed, asleep on a locked drawer, my utopian reality again. A blue skirt and orange and anise biscuits and brandy, I expect. Someone said that a leader is one who knows where it goes and can take others with it. The lead by example is undoubtedly the most effective ever imagined. Each of us has been influenced in our lives to see the acts of others. I'm sure you've heard it said "Is that what you are speaks so loudly that I can not hear what you say. " In other words, the way you live your life, the image you project, the example you give, say as much, if not in harmony with what you say to people, not going to believe what they say . . The good man out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth evil: for of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. . . .
