Can The Flu Bring Your Period On Early

POPPIES SOUNDS NIGHT WITHOUT EXAMS

's dark. Go for a walk. The music of the last concert I chase through the streets of downtown. I am sad note. A blend of melodies of the past that are vented from the red stones of medieval architecture that is disappearing. I reach. I hear him as the expert hands of an old lover who no longer want. Singing voice controlled. Redness on the skin of a sun that I was slapped once again. I follow the familiar walk these streets, recalling the dangers and know how to find the beauty.

are being the basket in front of a decaying building that once I look at the sundial chanting my days as a student away from home. I lived three years in that house. I look at the lighted windows. Someone changed the curtains. In that room I slept with her, the friend of the heart. What you put my clothes. The one who lent me his pants. Sleepless nights preparing for exams. Friends' parties and drunken that melted on the steps of an apartment colored. And a cat, daughter of instinct and a mother of unborn puppies.

keep looking at the lighted windows. A ghost moves its shadow across the room. Those who live where I live?

I approach the door. The bells are the same. Brass and stained plywood off-white labels from old and new names. Mrs. blackberry, tan in all seasons, still lives here. One day she broke the TV. A roar that I had never heard. The astronomer on the top floor but no more. Too bad, it was nice.

My name has been replaced by another, shorter, unknown. And 'what happens after a farewell, I think. The passage of a witness. A name is cleared, another takes its place.

's just a house! I repeat. Four walls of clay. Plaster and paint. And I love moving. What is this sadness?

The massive wooden door show the same signs of the time. A deep incision of the day came that the thieves, small scars drawn from the keys of eager hands and a slot where it continues to shelter the same spider as I feared.

What aspect? What I seek?

I see me open the windows. Greeting the custodian of the building opposite. Open the drawer of a cabinet painted pink and still wear the white shirt that I liked so much. I would start there, where everything was still whole.

I look at the window. The changing light of a television set marks the rhythm of the last commercial. E 'over the carousel, I think. Maybe it's better to go to sleep.

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BORN FREE

I was born on Good Friday. I can not be haunted, I assured my mother. Not by wizards and sorcerers. But do not serve colored potions and concoctions to chain a mind. Some prisons have opened the gates. Large windows overlooking the distant worlds to see and do not touch, as if they were bare wires of an electrical connection. Others have the taste of chocolate.

I've heard a lot about freedom. They spoke of the songs of the seventies. Emerged from the pages of a literature that has interwoven stories about the streets and deluded generations of dreamers without a passport. He spoke of my cousin leaving for India in search of a foreign spirituality.

I saw painted on t-shirts. Drawn to the bright background of a canvas without an author.

I learned from my grandfather's independence. He always said that if he ate a peach off the tree, alone, in a sunny afternoon, it was not summer. A result, his freedom. As the Sunday of my thirteen years. As an afternoon spent with Clara.

Sparkling Criminal Romagna, riding his legendary 193 horsepower, Clara is a longtime friend of my days in the sun.

We Milano Marittima, the heart of the glamorous Riviera. For years I walked in that living room that smells of sea and perfumes. A blonde on top of the heel leads to walk the last fragrance by Kenzo. The man with green eyes is certainly Azzaro. Roccobarocco evaporates from the wrists of a girl with long dark hair and Clarins surrounds the neck of an old lady who feels his thirties. Clara and I are in the window, sitting at a coffee in the company of two drinks a toast to her birthday. Beside us, the trunk of an old pine penetrates the ceiling and leaves as large outdoor umbrella evergreen needles that protect the voice of nature.

Clara has always been the trusted custodian of my deepest secrets and authentic stir up all of my dreams. As we file past mouths silicon in alligator shoes and men, their faces drawn, we find the cards and we are confident to the last thought drinking French wine. At the table, a pair of glasses while you empty the ashtray vice forgives, accepting one after the other ones from that time did not smoke cigarettes. Let us from laughter to tears that fall like little girls playing back and tears to laughter, while pensioners take a walk with her hair dyed the opportunism of twentysomethings asunder and one after the other go see my old classmates more and more fat and better clothes. The hours pass us back on our ramblings part of the serenity that we carry with us in the years of catamarans off when the tan is never enough. These were the years of the sand in the pages of a book exam.

Our words fade as the finale of a music note. The wine is finished. The time available to us expired. You must return to his child. While I go back into the Easter egg, but just look at my face to know that I would have never wanted to enter.

Period Is 3 Days Away

water with a tear farewell

The sky cried this morning. His acid tears have soaked the city and under the arcades parade raincoats and jackets that wrap souls frozen in a humid day and misleading. The rain beats shots seated at the windows to the north and watering the plants too often overlooked. I gulp down the water look like marathon runners after the race. They are strong and combative. Every year they try to flourish. We flourish and renew their foliage. Grows and produces some other plants. Someone else, with courage, dies.

Today the sun is not at our meeting, I think. And I had also bought a new shirt ...

One time we were together until sunset. I remember it. We met on the beach. Sometimes it was already there at dawn and saw him brush a pink tint on the surface of a flat sea. "What are you doing?" I said. "You change the color of water?" I had never responded once!

I often reached where rocks me off on a surfboard. His touch was gentle in appearance only. I singed with the help of the wind and did not sleep the night in pain thinking of him.

If I look at it blinds me. Take the colors. Mixes them. It makes them go until they distinguish more light. If I try to hide behind clouds accomplices.

I always deny its beauty and today I decided to betray him.

Esco on the terrace by the smell of wet ground. Two drops I slide under the sweater, like fingers from the light touch. A third stop on the face, it redraws the contours with grace and skill. Then come the other to grow the insistent rhythm. The water flowing hair. Reflect on your hands. Pat their backs. The rain gathers around and sings to me at my feet cold. I breathe in assets such as plant emissions. If I saw my mother would think of having thrown his money to make me study. I smile.

"Lucy what are you doing?" Cries a neighbor. "I do not see that it's raining?"

It 's a middle-aged lady with her hand on his head cotton.

greet you and I go back home.

The sky continues to cry I do not know what to do. Bathroom was the only way I knew to comfort him.