ANIMAL PLASMA

  Notice: This work, or not-short story follows while I can do that, writing to give a new start for each moment. While it can be possible I will write to you without searching for answers, only trying to offer continuity. I do not know if I will have the condition for, but I will try. I do not remember climbing up a tree top; I just had seen the distance before I fell down to the ground. Sometimes we fall from the top of our own ourself believes. I have some age to follow the path to the graveyard, and I no longer have the promise to have a place to live, how it can be possible in any neighbouring distance. Maybe, I think I would live beyond humanity as a helper, hero, and philanthropist. The worst human those who is intelligent and able for to manipulate people little intelligent, but does not only that I suppose, is necessary that people be grotesque, low moral values, religious by interest, and easily to be led to ignominious acts following a command. A psychopath can from his ...

Love do not exit for many Knowing that from old time I did not Love is not forever         our enemies care of the end They enter into our life- something short and filled of impossibilities We go enjoy a little peace and there is the mourning from battles War remains odd flanks Ongoing with terror Each one goes away and a feeling of absent cover us We see through misty the indistinct journey of the death No remorse when knowing that the evil lived what we had to witness However in a lovely loniliness and sweet dispair wether can read something from other language and culture unknown until arrive to complete unknowing They took our hope and now we have ourselves and what we will not being

  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 ...