irritate me stupid baby. Mirror, are like a mirror, you see yourself in them, what you see is what irritates you. Old is that simple? You see, no philosophy. You my dear friend, nice to hear such words. I'm losing my eyesight. I guess this must be done, however. Optometrist? Packs of tea on cosmetic wacikach? More time the open space? Lazy eights in my face? Computer? Glasses, stronger glasses no reflection? Fear or awareness of impending old age? Old age? But this is only half of your life! Medicine has an appetite for endless extensions! Teeth, standing, digestion, rejuvenation ... building the image of what a hero, naturalistic, listing issues and stuff. Pfu!
Today I got the message. He died a king, long live the king! The simple truth, revolutionaries usually is less than the average bread eaters. The first carry banners, which bear Password brotherhood, life and human values, love in the upcoming, new future. Others banners have long buried in the wood cells, smile and continue doing their dispassionately. Sometimes we cry, somewhere ostensibly indignant, generally vegetate like plants have not yet plowed land. One day you may grow, perhaps becoming the only, or until, fertilizer.
message as the message short and kind SMS, three hours later, an e-mail. I read, I wonder if I understand, I read the second time, third, fourth. Facts and only the facts. Even the shade of gray and weak, questionable. Quantum leap from rural municipal roads on a large, black and white stripes, intercity highway. The dust and the stench of the place during the wind in your hair, the wings at the shoulders. Grimace for a smile of restraint of liberty ... it well. Must live in harmony with itself.
I drink water, boiled, cooled in the refrigerator. Always fascinated by its taste, which does not exist, the smell, which it does not, and looking at nothing, because there is nothing there, except maybe grimacing transparency all around. Two glasses, no spoons, it is not tea, not because it's not spodeczka office, without plastyczanego basket because it is age, not passed. A pile of official papers on his desk. Cards torn from notebooks, yellow post-itów tacky dust to itself. The value and meaning in itself. Well, I have yet to breathe ...
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