ANIMAL PLASMA

  She likes me and I like her We like us I don’t know anything. I believe that she doesn’t know about that too. She says love stuff and I make the same. She and me both. We miss each other and search for to be together.    Love is something of a cowardly force that leads everyone not wanting others absent. To be alone causes panic for these people. To be in yourself. A yourself without roots, anchor, or existence sense of an individuality that is enough auto centered. In the same way it is a pursuit, as are the aims, knowing that they lack something. The love for to reach fame, glory, a goal produces a repetitive intent of fill a void, the transcendental hole called self-love. In reason of that, we never arrive to completeness awareness, love is in all mode a modular will of to have a witness that release, remembrance our confidence in seek peace, the miror reflexionable for where the love emerges and translight in transcendence.  It is it clearly an belonging from e...

  “God said”, told the old man sat along beach in a day of cold summer. “What said the Lord?” Others asked in follow up this. In this confusion of everyone takes the word, asking all the time continuously. Those whom said that “God said” in an impetuous scream: “Forget, it is enough, I did not say anything.”    The silence ate the wind, until that a man posed behind them, manifested: “Who he thinks is he? In my election I do not want problems.” And the gods wrote on sand beach.

             Cansei das mesmas violas, e falo comigo mesmo outra vez. A impertinência diária da terra abarrotada, ainda que choveu não passa de minutos, vejo antecipado a secura de tudo, essas flores que vejo. E não vieram por enquanto. A relva dura, as formas pudicas, uma contenção de lágrimas.              Podia pensar em outro arranjo, deixar o tormento de imaginar. E a música que repete em algum desvario, a fala cantada dessa gente miúda que voa. E mais porque penso nas certezas do incerto, tomo-me e levo-me à cozinha, lugar de poucos riscos, achatados barulhos. Ter um aparador ali, que pudesse alcançar e ler as receitas poéticas de algum amável desconhecido, os desvarios de um pedaço de queijo e uma taça de vinho de Epicuro.           Abriria páginas dormidas de Quincey e cairia sonolento. E logo a dispor-me ao trabalho fatigante que a fome alegra preparo todas as preparações para enfim, ...

  Word does not are things like goods My life it was a seek of sensation My fears to express feelings before of understanding It was bending to reason which support the meaning I was dreaming, imagination My feet were walking on the clouds The world nearby made orders and moralities My inventions were fragmented Competencies, applications, obligations, obedience does not had pertinence in my way being I could make rain, tint the place and view from above to below Organisation of the stuff, defined aims, to know wait Fantasy and flight were my reality It dropped away lost completely Emotions with perception of more than can have a sensed effect Feelings were my days From that I had many misunderstandings Dust flying Birds digging Rats singing Windows dancing Cats walking around Insects playing football Furniture whispers song It does not is easy for those who wanted normality levelled Normal do not talk alone, I do Never fall down or have distractions They have coexisten...

    El fin, la muerte, de todo que hablamos en el micrófono del social control, hablamos en la piel de los bjos en la visión de un fin que no se corre al entendimiento si no cómo lo que se hizo o se determinó cerrando luces, pero lo que está en la visión no es complementario a una vida, el fin no se establece a medio camino.         Es el punto ciego de una geometría que pierde su configuración en el movimiento. No se mueve más. Es lo que no fluye más, no causa efecto, perdido el sentido de vida. El muerto no más reata con una configuración de presencia móvil, puede ser movido, cambiarse de su posición de cuerpo en deterioración, cosa inmediata, es la descamación, el fin de la integridad de uno.           Pequeñas partes que pierden su razón de ser complejo, pero en una otra complejidad, de disolución del entero. Se actúa el fin en sí mismo, moverse en desplazarse a quedarse en una lógica de finalidad. Al venir de uno comenzar ...

   To Sara, who led me to know Vygotsky's theory: We can fly. The only difficulty with this Is knowing if we have skills with our wings. Many people like me have listened to that for a long time. It happened while I lived with my parents and in all the periods that I was a student: You can fly. So it followed like a radio advertisement between music. To me, it was a measure of caution and torture. I had this sensation often when I lived alone, and that came again and again. I will need a keystone to open my understanding. I am trying to understand why. People repeated it, and the worst never had a terminus, increased and with many similar ways of saying. Grows and appears. Opens their wings. The sky is for a few. You need to arrange a way to clean your life, Ok. Try to take a lesson from that. Why not go from here? The world is like an orange flying in heaven. Could you make a schedule and then put your priority in that? Never had I given importance to it...