Does Michael Jordan Have A Cleats Line

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERE

There are days when the keyboard writes itself. Makes use of my fingers. I look at them in silence while beating letters in sequence and I leave work ...

Why I woke up so early? The house is still upside down. I can not find a shoe. The door slams in the face of the building to a wet morning and immoral. Crumbs on the floor of a movie, a pizza plastic between swallowing a sip of beer and a cigarette without filter. The stench of smoke is devouring the plaster walls in a few minutes will reached the red stone cooked. I feel my stomach cramps tattered emptied. What happened in the night? Two bare feet emerge from a plaid blanket thrown on the couch. A tattooed arm swings carefully to the rhythm of a breath too sleepy. My body is no longer the same. The skin no longer has my smell. In my head it sounds an unlikely band of rowdy slamming sticks on my sore temples.

I just hope I have not exaggerated. The last time they took Charlie arrested the night.

But Charlie is not. He always does what he wants. Wins its share of the world with the innocence of a child's eyes and those dark curls resting on shoulders. I could never get mad at him.

Pass hand over his face and meeting my face. The sweaty forehead, his eyes tired. I have something on your nose. I mirror. Another piercing.

"Fuck Charlie! This time you could at least tell me! "

Diagram Of A35mm Camera

where the sea shines

's full season in the land of the wind. On the terraces of the waterfront hotel towels colored files show the flags of foreign countries and the roadside crowd parked cars. I walk on the shoreline as dawn stretches his hands on a pink beach yet quiet and orderly. The air is the breeze and sparkling blend time by returning an image with mixed fruit smoothie and papaya.

Avanzo lazy and like the protagonist of my novel, I think of my first wish. Emerge from the water just tanned my feet making their way between spray and gnawed shells and in this portion of the time you only hear the swish of waves sleepy morning.

In the distance I see the port.

I continue walking and already the first swimmers begin to prey on the beach portions of the pirates as a part-time while away the modest high-rise towers of Milano Marittima, witnessed blatant VIP parties and reserved for the auctioneer to auction lovers walkways. Somebody runs

muscles and melting winter sluggishness. Sellers abusive stretch their eyes noticed with counterfeit goods. And old ladies walk cotonate breathing air for a fee.

keep walking through the stretch of beach. A colony of the freedom of the children barks first holiday without parents. Their screams give way to the tam tam holiday that takes the stage with no pretense of applause.

At every step the beach hues in two pieces and shorts.

The smell of suntan covering the salinity of the west wind and the stillness becomes chaos. Within minutes the noise of chatter under the umbrella above the timid voice of the calm sea. Cell phone ringtones, games and gossip rackets and coconut oil are no longer out of tune a choir director.

I make my way among the people. The sun settles down its forces and a light grip pressure on my calf untrained.

The end is near.

few more steps and hit the rocks that draw the area.

is the port! Board of moorings for luxury cars and flooded yard of shady dealings and illegal trade. On the pier

recognize the smell of the sails and fuel.

I do not know because I walked this morning just to be here.

As a child I was there with my grandfather. Sitting on the dock waiting for the arrival of vessels to see the effort of tanned men returning from a night at sea. I watched them place boxes of fish jumping and listened to their dialect elevated tell companies impossible. Folded the nets, put his arm on the front and in their undershirts stained always smiled at me.

My grandfather I never confessed, but the fisherman had become my second wish.

Milena Velba - Sweetie Kitchen

Saints pay my lunch there's no romantic city

A blog is like a square. Anyone is allowed to transit, at all hours. There are stories. Pieces of life as prone to fast food. Laws and swallow. We are behind you drink a sip of beer poor, and you go elsewhere. When you're hungry you go back. Eat other words. If you are satisfied to leave comments. A piece of cake for those who come after you. A coca cola cans. A lit cigarette.

I look at the pages of my blog.

How many are featured here?

Poets and writers, discrete pens and desecration, pundits and onlookers, journalists and pimps. Travellers who have lightened the web browsing working days at the time of a click.

How many will return?

who come after them?

A blog is like a square. Sometimes it is crowded with happy faces, the tourists take pictures. At other times it is dark with the street sweepers that sweep away the exuberance of the last public charity concert. We catch up with old friends riding a bicycle, seductive glances of passers-by. And if you have time you can stop to chat with a madman who screams in the trash or the lady who walked the dog combed the fashion.

On a blog to get there by accident. Follow your instincts. Start Pages as matryoshkas. Color, appearance, mentioned profiles of individuals who hide behind fictitious identity. Today

back night in Bologna. The light fades on the red roof, "the people back home in front of the television," and while I wonder how people have ended up on my blog someone tries to chat.

"Hello" attacks.

answer to the greeting.

It 's a boy. He says he writes stories. He says it happened on my blog in the most odd that I can imagine.

I challenge him to tell.

not want to do, says ashamed.

I hope that does not begin to tell Filthy because I close the chat and not reopen again.

He asks me not to laugh. I promise not to do so. He begins to tell.

It seems that someone has read the papers. But I got to do that? I think. That "someone" has suggested a name for something that had to do with his journey. That name was Lucia and he has tried anywhere.

I can not keep his promise and I laugh.

He does not get angry, laugh with me.

It 's a strange night. The wind slams doors and windows and upstairs to discuss some old issues become known to the whole building.

A blog is like a square, I think. Not a place that mixes magic and imagination.

I do not know how you all you've come here. Of course I have had the patience to follow my stories. I wanted to best serve the dishes, pour in your vintage wine glasses and toast to the season that surrounded him. But it's just a fast food restaurant. Cheap words to eat between flights of pigeons and a chewing gum spat out that if you're not careful you stick under your feet.