What Can I Clean Dog Tags With

of cows and pigs, cactus and tables.

He argues that a cow and a pig can be a beautiful couple. I also think of a table and a cactus. Argues that love does not look at anybody.

And I think so. Maybe it's because we are brothers who think the same way. Maybe it's because we fund the most romantic of what we want people to know about. Maybe it's just that we need hope. Or maybe the thorns of the cactus can really stick in the wood of the table, and join no matter what.

                                                     

                     

"It would be nice, would not you?"

"It 's only love that you can tell the love." And so it is said, as he did HERE .

Read it.

And let me know.

Lab Eight Hardy Weinberg Problems #1

elbowing you idiots.

Humans are born with little stuff included. They have abundant tears, a few hair, an umbilical cord (which from the time when the head is out of the womb is no longer needed at all) and the nails are too weak to defend themselves from life. Too weak even to hold on to life itself.

God takes them and sends them to Earth so without any clothes on, dirty and cold.

Now, if I buy a microwave oven in there I find an instruction manual. If I buy a Kinder egg, we find a surprise and a leaflet to mount it.

Washing machine: manual.

Library: insert and put it up.

And so on ... Well ...

instruction booklets and leaflets are wasted throughout. And often snub them, as well, as you are convinced that you can do it without them.

is why I, for example, I never understood how to work well on my microwave.

For humans do not. God, being perfect, forgot to attach it.

so happens that some days trying to understand how someone. You size in an attempt to find a glimmer of consistency in his behavior. Every active connection neural trying to understand an attitude, a choice. But do not make it.

Would you like an instruction manual, then. What you read, not puts it away in a drawer as you did with the oven! In the search for answers and would, perhaps. It easily put to rest the synapses, with great satisfaction of any neurotransmitter that long to think where you will be a holiday. But nothing.

Alternatively, take your book and leafed through it until you find the "reset" button. And you're reset, of course. Go back a handful of days, years, ages, perhaps of life. Back to that sunny afternoon on a beach and sea burned. When you were a white hat and the hair on your face you down badly because there was too much wind and a smile in photo that you were taking the real risk of not look good. And it was a sin. Just a pity ... because they were smiling so much, perhaps too much. I'd go back to that instant and crushing on the still image to stay there and not to live anymore. Choose that day because you need another life in a white beach, another totally new life in a faraway place that smells of lemons and granite rocks and smoke of Etna and blacks and salt residue on the skin and heart.

some evenings in the user manual would you try the key "off" and you go out, of course, that fight against insomnia never liked anyone. E ' you do not see a silent enemy, an enemy that strikes a deadly blow to your shoulders behind your head and you do not have eyes to notice him and scanned. And sleep would last, and creep into every corner of that concave your tired body down on the pillow and the sheets, like something liquid that spreads all around and then t'annega. Slowly.

But there's no "reset" button. No keys off. There is no way to understand and even to forget.

you still only want to open a page in word and writing.

And write things like this:

"It 's that we ran too.

courses, and kept his eyes closed,

we have thought of yet there were only smiles and tears.

E 'which I have breathed the same air that was in your lungs just before
X for X days and nights.

And when you wake up we always put a little 'to understand
up where your body and start my own.

E 'we're done with the Fund.

And then something went wrong: When we were not solidified together. "

When you finish writing the re-read and highlight it and click "Delete." It leaves only the text, no emotion. And so you take it up there with those who forgot to attach that little book et'ha sent into the world as you do with a bull in an arena full of people who yells and wants him dead. Except you have not even the bull by the horns, you just nails. And the nails, as you can sharpen, strengthen them with enamel and colored gel and chic, will never be enough to cope with this life.

Then look at your watch: 4:20 am. Shut down your laptop, you get to bed. Do not sleep. Do not pray. But can you imagine how it would be oblivious to the presence of God, images that you would say: "Dear God, sorry to bother you at this time of night. I'm sure even you sleep, you have many things to think about and many things to fix. I certainly do not want to replace me but you, well, maybe attach an instruction manual to every human being now, perhaps you and I sleep soundly. Dear God, maybe here, if I did have a couple of those books I'd be here to reclaim your attention and you could devote to them. Dear God, maybe here it will seem presumptuous, But I think you should follow my advice. If you just do not want to give me at least sleep, because if not send me to sleep I imagine conversations with you and it seems unlikely that the delusion that you take when you sleep just have something in common with psychosis. And I'm not crazy, God, I'm just without a book and I'm sure you no longer wish to abide to listen to as much as I do not have more than stand there and talk to you. So let us this favor. "

When you are done writing the 5 in the morning. God puts his hand over your eyes et'addormenta.

Meanwhile bother to raise the sun.

thee heard is true. But it took him a while 'before settle.

certainly had more important things to do, you say. There are always more important things.

There are always the most important people. The human heart has many first places. Elbowing you idiots.

Silvia 22/05/2010

V Belt For Mtd 8 Horsepower Snowblower

the fence and water.

She has four years and a blue dress, her hair is brown and tied back in a braid decomposed, eye color blends to lose with that dress. I gave the pens to make her feel good that now I do not want to play.

She took thirty-six my markers and drew a little man. In doing so has made the genocide of the tips accompanied by shrill sound of the marker on the sheet that succumbs under the pressure of a stretch is too intense. The little man has a long body and a long oval head and large. He has green eyes without pupils, with only three fingers and hands. He smiles in a nose too big. He has small feet and arms and tapered mileage: is a stick.

She has the hands of thirty-six of thirty-six colors colors el'omino is wounded and thirty-six colors, with their tops mangled, lying on my desk. Some roll down to the floor, as if to tell everyone that now are really unnecessary, So will the end.

"We need to clean your hands, baby."

I take a cotton ball, soaked it with water. His skin white skin back to baby.

He gives me the little man, the stick . "For you"-he says-and as she does blushes. Then he goes on.

She has four years, I twenty-seven: we have nothing in common except the fact that we believe that men are sticks and that the mess go away with water.

Silvia. May 8, 2010.