Clip Art Of Irregular Heartbeat

Pussy, Juan Manuel Prada.

A perverse paranoia overwhelms me to read every page of this malevolent and beautiful book. Eroticism, pornography, transgression and evil run through each line of the archeology of the pussy. The pussy of girls, the whores pussy, pussy of the widows, the rent pussy, pussy of the sleepwalkers. That's why coñometría who does not know, nor is a coñofílico said, fails to engrossed in this booklet delirious pussy. These fragments serve as an invitation to the erection, ejaculation defenseless against an orphan and shaggy slit envérgate to her pale thighs and dreams of soft openings.

The neighbor across

During adolescence, Silvia and I were dating in the distance, each at one end of town, suburban living creatures of nostalgia and love is never consummated. It was then when we turn to a communication system used when Noah and the Flood: carrier pigeons. At the feet of those wise birds caught our messages were binding, ink blur of tears, full of metaphors and orgasms Becquerian sentimental. Then when we grew, we moved to the center of the city and unknowingly, without approval, on a whim of fate, the imposition of fate or whatever, "agree in the same building, neighbors facing each other. With great dismay, we waive the volatile exchange messages and decide-as doves languishing for lack of work and not even zureaban-arrange a funeral feast in which the troubled messenger roasted and we ate them with bones and feathers and peak. But life continued, and soon found another messaging system, had a clothesline in the atrium linking the wall of his house with the wall of the mine through an intricate genius of ropes and pulleys, and there, every morning , Silvia left me, secured by clips, panties of the day. I then pulled the rope and I approached this message fragrant, at least one piece of fabric that I spoke of her and her affairs with an eloquence concerns prior to words. Those white panties, black, purple or apricot, were the seal in which stamped her pussy Silvia orphan, the sponge which contained the fruit of many kisses and caresses that she lavished on herself in the solitude of his apartment celibate. Sometimes, her panties revealing a timid pussy, thinner than the spirit of the candy, lean and dry like blotting paper, and others brought the testimony of a wealthy hell, sweet as a tropical fruit, dripping syrup and ragweed, melted like a big drop of honey. There were times that I spoke of a panties pussy yacht he was going to sea on a boat and returned imbued with a scent of salt and stony corals, and other times I conveyed the painful cry of a pussy cut open and bleeding. All those messages touched me and woke dark desires, temptations dark, dark imminence of pleasure. Silvia clothesline waiting at the foot of a response to this expectation of the nineteenth century brides awaiting the arrival of her boyfriend layered on the balcony. But that answer never came, because my pants did not serve to convey the infinite shades of feeling (I did not stamping a pussy tears, laughter, blood or veneration), and it goes against the most elementary rules of hygiene. But would be imposed on an unmarried man, devoid of washing detergent and even, to keep his underwear clean? Silvia, meanwhile, languished across the patio. I do not even zureaba
. Any day now, I have to organize another funeral banquet. And this time, besides funeral will be cannibals.

's pussy lesbians

There is a convention of lesbian clients frighten us away. Lesbians who come in droves, stirring up the hall with banners and slogans feminist practice corporatism fierce, even more ferocious than that of doctors, judges or lawyers. Lesbians are girls very claws that remind me more than the shepherdesses Sanazzaro or Jorge de Montemayor, the mountain of the Marquis de Santillana, who carried on the shoulders with travelers who ventured into their domain and are then came and went in any byways or cliff.
One, who has read Proust lot, despite working as a receptionist at the flophouse, hopes to one year, between the belligerent troops lesbian, there is similar to Au recherche Albertine, or any of those sublime Proust met gomorrianas Balbec in the spa, but contradicts the nature of art. Against lesbians in the books, flower girls look out the corner of his eye and mischief perpetrated, lesbian conventions faction women appear as wild and somewhat stale, more representative of vulgarity than anything else.
Lesbians locked in their rooms, after registering at the reception, to stand the trip, and are mixed together. Form a harem of mermaids mollares, inflamed by the incomprehension of society. Once installed, start to be heard behind closed doors and spit sighs and purrs. Lesbians make the tortilla with a delicacy unknown in heterosexual couples, to apply to pleasure other than himself, in an altruistic love.
Among lesbian couples, there are those who officiates officiating man and woman who (in spite of corporatism and flophouse conventions have not yet managed to get rid of social practices), but this division of roles does not diminish the greatness of his love sterile beings together. Together their pussies lesbians without fear of mating, share their juices and saliva kisses are thick, almost masculine. The pussy of lesbian, better preserved than that of heterosexuals (the same way that childless women belly smoother preserves the Birth "), part of the tortilla copious orgasms, swampy, almost river, soaking the sheets and force the hotel laundry to work overtime. In the morning, in the absence of other signs, lesbians stand up and take the hotel's balconies wet sheets and cunnilinguos masturbation as unchaste banners of their nocturnal activities. Cracked sheets to the wind, with the double imprint of the pussy, and director hits voices to the hotel cleaning service, to withdraw immediately from such filth balconies that sully the reputation of your business. Flows stains on the sheet, weave a fanciful calligraphy, and ink stains, and could be used by a psychiatrist to study the reactions of his patients.
To me, in particular, those spots I suggest a river inhabited by nymphs. Will the lesbian nymphs to become a witch viragos, touching them with a magic wand?


pussy transvestite The

customers in a nightclub and enough vaccine pachanguera works Felipe, my friend, the transvestite.
acts at around midnight, dressed folk with ruffled dress and castanets, if they let him act, because sometimes the clientele, there is a vandal throw turnips on stage, and Philip must withdraw, mocked in their femininity. Felipe, aka The Coquito, rumba and seguidillas sings with his voice hoarse canary, and slip between songs a joke chocarrero for more spiritual food of the mules, which are always in their performances. Felipe, aka The Coquito, I know him since childhood, when we agree on the same school (and in the same room, yet at the same desk) during elementary school. Philip, then, he already had some weakness Socratic Hellenism certain ailments of a little male. When the teacher explained theorems, or when we are punished by having recreation, Felipe I got my hand under the desk, and I masturbated with a violent young man frustrated. Philip, who were threatening to fourteen years with sex-change as gather some savings, I was a kid reading indigestion harmful and couplets, shaking his ass to go and pluck the bozo. Then I lost track for years, until I went back to get him a few months ago, in this club impassable, to which I went to celebrate my bachelor party. When announcing the performance of the Coquito, the public, brutalized by alcohol and other diseases gregarious, began to kick and make nonsense (and I admit that I also joined the barbarism). Felipe, aka The Coquito, came on stage with the opening chords of The reliquary I heard him sing many times during our school years. Felipe, aka The Coquito, carving out the hair tresses, I picked up in a bun and poked with a comb, under the crust of makeup, her blue beard, as a late tribute to his virility. Felipe rolled his ruffled skirt and showed her thighs almost to the height of the English, they were playful thighs, an earthquake cushioned socks, men's sunk to the cause. He tried a shoe and a clatter of castanets, but the public, abused in the eardrums, rebuked him and gave him a spit and semen ejaculation patient. Felipe, aka The Coquito, scurrying behind the scenes once exhausted his repertoire, and no longer reappeared throughout the night.
I left my buddies on the dance floor of the club a hit song, music, rumbling percussion, as slaughterhouse or sadomasochistic games, and asked the business manager for Felipe. He pointed to a door with a sign reading PRIVATE. In this miserable little room, including liquor bottles and empty hulls, was Felipe, aka The Coquito, wiping the makeup.
was much better looking than my girlfriend, I must decide.
"I saw you in the audience. Go buddies you have more sheep.
He asked me to loosen her bra, and I see her tits bursting of silicone, with hairs on the nipple, just like my girlfriend, I must decide. I kissed Philip on the shoulder, scar on the varicella vaccine and measles. Philip was behind Olympic swimmer, too smooth belly and hips drained, as pre-pubescent girl. Panties pulled down, deliriously erotic (back left my girlfriend) and I felt my flesh pussy ass and probably excised from transplanted there. Between the lips hinted at a dítoris huge, phallic, abound in centimeters. It was a bit disgusted to see that appendix between the labia. Asked
"But do not you have removed the member? Did not you say you were small saving for doing surgery?
Felipe, aka The Coquito, looked down at the floor strewn with roaches and broken glass. He said, his voice hoarse canary:
"I've operated seven times, but it is useless. I always grow back like weeds.
mumbled words of sympathy and I went off.

The girls pussy

know it is contrary to the rules of civility and decency, and yet, how temptation to watch a girl piss next to a wall! There's a song that does not perish in that jet yellow bursts from inside, like a thread of twine, like a perpetual gold yarn dialogue with the earth. The girls pussy is a pussy pitus, pert, too pink and to hold sin, a smooth pussy, for a moment, brings us back to the paradise of childhood. Hairless pussy of girls who piss on the walls, almost always a celebration of solidarity (which is common to see girls pee gang) is a joyful monument erected in honor of her innocence and malice, because these girls that we show their huchita and we throw at the foot of the wall of his small change pis are innocent and equally mischievous, innocent and malicious teach because her pussy know that they teach with impunity, with no hint of danger, because the constraints of civility and religion closer to us from your cleavage pink, not even cleaned with these blades of grass growing next to the wall. The girls pussy, brash and meoncete takes us deeper into the gap of years with its original taste pee pleased with the heat of those last few drops that still dripping when climbing pant and fly off in noisy cabal, whispering together:
- Have you noticed in this man, how we watched the bunny?
And I see them leave suddenly saddened, with omens of prostate and kidney stones.
On the wall there is a string of spills that are whimsical drawings, a map of moles that I am unable to decipher. The wall smells like stale pee, because girls are atavistic creatures of habit and always mean the same site. Maybe, tonight, at home, your mama scold by peeing in the street and not cleaned after the recess without hair, smelling of malice, perfumed innocence, like a large sore that we would have liked to kiss.

The red flower was

inaugural moment, the first menstruation. What intersection of pain and uncertainty, hopes and disappointments! Suddenly feels the girl, the middle class mathematics, a shift in her womb, a romp in his gut does not know the teacher to locate and attack diagnosed as appendicitis. The surrounding world lost concreteness, and she is bleeding from dizziness, choking soles that do not exist, because we are in the middle of December. What a moment for eternity, the girl's pierced by a sword of their first menstruation, fainting into the arms of the teacher who can not see beyond the square the circle and three fourteen sixteen! What flower improvised flow density that comes from within and he is wetting her panties and jeans later! What gradually the puddle the first period on the desk chair! Which planet of blood! You have to wait for a classmate (usually repetitive) it falls into the enigma of the bleeding and provide a safe and secure minievax, a tampon, sponge, blotting paper, whatever, to heal this wound will be reopened when the moon completes another cycle. What the hell so worthy of the girl who has her first period! What ovaries own, intimate and contained in his belly still intact, which tears the blood mournful weeping for that first egg that died without being fertilized!
What now, God! Archaeology


pussy
My brother Felix, an archaeologist by profession, made expeditions to the Greek islands, and unearth statues of goddesses usually unintelligible and mutilated. The work of archaeologists, under the sun yellow and almost Doric Aegean, has been heating up my brother Felix, to infuse a little Catholic ideas of outrageous extravagance. Asserts that the only truly desirable woman is the statue, because his stillness or immobility prevents us men the psychological component purely hysterical or suffered by others (I mean the women of flesh and blood and soul). This praise of love statuary, which could prove tricky as lucubration and up argument for a treaty of snobbery, implemented can cause fever and dysfunction. In her last archaeological expedition, Felix brought a collection of goddesses incomplete, fragments of marble that circulated in his garden, among clumps of clover and boxwood shrubs, like meteors falling from the sky, worsened by the pagan lust with the statues. In the evenings, when dusk sets fire to trees, giving them a certain greatness of forest, my brother Felix walks in the garden (it is a peripatetic, without knowing it) and pretends to be faced with these pieces of goddess who always needed arm, leg or head, but he never pussy. The pussy of the Greek statues is of a white shabby for carbon 14, a mop and hell no, of course, impenetrable. The Greek statues pussy, my brother Felix strokes with the worship of the priests who officiate a ceremony sublime, does not support variants, if belonging to such diverse goddesses like Aphrodite or Demeter. The pussy of the Greek statues is a pinch of marble, a warped surface with a slight depression between the lips (in any case a hole) that my brother Felix masturbates with her index finger, tracing a circular movement, parsimoniously, that, day after day, eroding the stone. While my brother Felix
masturbates the statues in his garden, on Olympus smile goddesses, shaken by tickling the air transmits them, smiling for breaking the sixth commandment of a barbaric religion. Swifts, fly-in, they defecate on the pussy of the statues, and shit, in contact with the marble, it becomes honey. That, at least, is what my brother says, who, incidentally, we decided to intern in a mental hospital. In your abandoned garden statue fragments remain, hidden among the foliage and bird droppings, nostalgic of the sun and almost Doric blonde looks over the Aegean Sea.

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Notebook writing (Ellipsis Elizondianas)

Elizondianas



As I sign forms just glimpse the words trembling larval stage on the table, preparing to fly his epiphanic assumption. Write in here the first attempt, lost between sleep and wakefulness, scrawled intangible entity owned by vaginal sizzling nude ghost in the void, where a concentrated force are ovoid, oblique anxiety over the pupil burst ontological being (the fin) in empty silence uncertainty ember parent finger down to the concrete, the flesh defenseless and unaware they expect it-s-Eden. Amorphous

yet, see how to define the symbol structure that mediates between the mind and space: concatenating phonemes amalgam of each other. Then, this shy childish syntax withstand the assaults of the eyelid suspended from insomnia modernized reinterpretation totemic insane low mercury fluorescent gravitating, who will decide the rest of the stem on the table or thrown into the basket oblivion.


II

apoplectic and not the empty feeling, passion, Pessoa, say. But, I think, from my perspective sighted: the structure giving coherence to the floor, the bustle of the syllable phonetic bursting in white or pale snail silent.

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Footnotes insomnia, Victor Ruiz

Footnotes
insomnia (Fragments of the eye)

I

scale on white matter
sleepless eye, cleft
foul ball in the stillness of the fly. Screw
verb sleep
gangrene, and the word, pustule
Sleepless in page, is nothing.

II

Nothing in pustule sleepless
word is. Only a foul ball
cleft white eye still fly, beetle no fool
insect larva chrysalis hanging
laughter
dreamed the dream of the eye.


III Word
insect larva and panache. White No sleepless
infectious laughter
Pendant. Globule

insomniac infested stalks the logo, its syntax, grammar
his sleeping emptiness.

White Cream Before Period

I. Agape (excerpt), Victor Javier Ruiz González

Excerpt from a narrative project. The eroticism and transgression are themes present in my book The Perpetual Vigil, between the lines of some poems the brutal act of torture, the open wound as laughter, the eccentric eye. Is this a sly tribute to others, who in themselves dictated these words.

I. Agape

To Ezequiel D'Leon Masis, erotomaniac, pornographer and Baroque.

Your body, in the shadow of a lamp that casts its glow over the rosy purple of your sex, looks like a wafer suspended from a high sea clinging to the pathetic language of corporate redemtoris that swings in systole and diastole rhythmic. A stream of salt runoff on the grooves of your navel. Upgrades neck and glimpse into the attacks that remote visibility of the drill that corrodes your body, short sharp glimpse veins, swollen, driven into the recess crowned hirsuta by a red ring of fire, that devours, swallows, swallows, impatient, inflamed my dome light vigil.

She watches us.
I know from your niche candles flickering, nubile phalanges resemble phalluses, passes through a cave resistant to these ongoing assaults and nervous. Licking the corners of his mouth, chews with his nails shy nipples until they bleed, blood and moisture mixing sex on her fingers, then put into your mouth, over and over again until his hands, mouth and convulsed with violent sex spasms.
You go,
you undress, in my bed I can see your totem animal skin, the curve of your ass erect tits erect and sharp, the mound of hair under the blind spot of your navel. I know that under that piece of light is probably your face, but today, right now I do not care. Your dog's eyes baccalau disturbed in this theater of pleasure, only serve to remove them to remove them from their orbits and then insert my tongue in the holes orphans, masturbating and dropping ash on that my soft embarrassed face, in ecstasy, oblivious to The metallic feel that caresses your back and is drawing up a text of cracks in the geometry of your flesh.
to contemplate the scene from a darkened corner of the room. Quiet, yet color variations produce a bloodless plug on that amalgam red lead on the bed. Not bodies, are fragments of an unfinished writing that he will perpetuate the infinite through the paint. Her mouth lying on the bed, you penetrate the viscous spiral lacerated her anus, the stench of human blood smiles at me, they say, you say. The stench of shit with the iron taste of blood is all that matters. To hell with art, writing and language. This is my hand reaching down to the base of my lamp in sailing, plunger bright, fleeting and disguised witness you scrutinize the vast opening for radio and the volume of this cock arched , entering, leaving, entering, smeared with the substance dripping rojambarina by corners of the smile infected. This is my hand, my fingers scrutinizing each hole near you: your ass, my ass, your mouth, my mouth, the wound in your belly with your bowels scattered on the bed, river from your eyes away.
I'll watch, perched on the rump
my mother, I see how tight your lashes long pendulum that slot porous, that gangrene stinking of urine and feces, she bites her lips parted exhausted sheets, sometimes you finger drills and blood drained from my den I can hear the sound of your voice that you deposit in your ears: she is watching. As always, I speak, I obey, I know that you like, order me, ask me masturbate; then enter my fingers into my pussy and I am a cave waiting for your mandrake spotless, your faceless torso serpentine undermining, caress my infant nipples erect, red, hot, I see the sharp pleasure in your pupils dilated, furiously ejaculating inside their rectal cavities, I can feel the tremors on my ass, I tremble, gasp, sob, I'm my mother and my phalanx phallus you deposit your poison translucent scorpion, see, here I wait.

II rite or escatolicofálico escatolúmpeco

Ochre, opaque sound sickening bursts in space where your body contorts as bath salt in lifeless slug. Oyster hidden in the navel of origin anxiety in the pendulum filled and buzzing between your thighs, she blasted loose hair on his shoulders, his oseatura unnamed pale, his brow raised and narrowed eyes, a martyr of sexual intercourse in ecstasy, Tantric rise. With white pupils she shakes her head, watching you, try to recognize your face the telltale sign that says I am: the shaggy eyebrows together, who gallops in the garden of your recess forks. Then you say the words, just muttered in his ear, a gesture of disgust instead of your mouth birth, but you know always the same. In the room where seconds before ocher, dull sound burst, four walls stained and weightless nausea rising to the nostrils: two square meters for two high: the toilet, your body open and ready for the rite, it has also, your body on the verge of laughter, open your body, your body open and laughter of an eye opening, opening, and the first drops, amber dark on your face and laughter ... and bodies ...

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interpretations implausible connections

.- shosho Joé that fill! -.

Yep, these were the first words out of his mouth after dropping his right hand heavily on the clock. It was 7: 15 am and after three weeks currando tooodos day, that "Joe shosho that fill" was the least I could get out of your mouth. Especially if it turns out, moreover, was Monday morning. Had puffy face and had to remove the curls of her hair in the mirror to gauge the overall state of fatigue.

.- Uh, but what fronted, daughter! .- And half saying softly, half thinking at high frequency, reached out to let the water run from the shower. With the sound of drops falling on the plate, his mind was awakened even above the level of awakening of the rest of his body, gave the order to enter the water and suddenly jumped on contact with the liquid element that descended directly from the Sierra Nevada.

Soon, he left muttering curses through his teeth, led to thermal heating of the house, dressed in less than five minutes adorned in another fifteen and spent his free time until 8: 25 hours, cleaning the remains of dinner and kitchen utensils. Before leaving, took one last look through the window .- But quillooo! Do not tell me you me you will, put up a llovéeee! .- Said at a speed that only the receiver he addressed could understand. Left home, got into the car and the car, he went in alone in the caravan of every day en route to Granada.

Luckily at that time gave him for looking in the rearview mirror. Saw a civil guard patrol traffic. With a glance she realized that the stare, starving placing a fine early-morning in order to reach the monthly quota of fines. Better not take the radio now. Would have to eat the tail with potatoes and silent.

deep breath. He enjoyed listening to the voice that sounded for weeks in his head, as if from nowhere. As told her not kill anyone or commit any madness, let it ring freely.

By the way ... the voice reciting poems.

.- Slow, slow, slow.
Slow is the journey of my turtle,
Slow, quiet and very mature, does not care
stone wall,
Wet rain or the wind blows. Because

slow, slow, slow dancing with feeling

It is, climbing
temperature is to feel in my heart.

But slow, slow, slow.
But how slow is my torment.
In this town I can not, well I try
Driving basis.
With their tails of madness,
With cops, there fucking
And people do not hurry!

Then, as carried away by the outburst of anger, honked and shouted something in a low voice so as not to seem too violent in the eyes of the civil guard. The light of fifty meters later changed color and the entrance to the city eased congestion on the road. Finally came to the university today is known for her work in many areas undisputed of culture but, then, among other trades, was the clerk of the Commissary of Fine Arts at the University of Granada, and broke the soul to have the store always ready even if it cost him to stay and sometimes without the first coffee milk in the morning.

Upon arrival he found a conspicuous racks for placing supply. He had to rush into and out of stores with the material while the three students who expected to opened, were limited to watching and complaining. Not bothered but if that caused a little more stress.

.- And it is still Monday ... .- returned to swear. Mid-morning

had almost no customers and your partner and owner of the establishment of further said something like: .- Girl, I saw tené leaving a single time I have to make a recao! .-

She answered, among other things, because he had no time react. When finished assimilating the phrase, his partner had been lost in the distance. He stayed a few minutes standing, facing the counter. Everything was in order, there was nothing to place, nothing to order, nothing to clean, because everything was done. After relaxed posture and took out a stick of bread these always carry. Nibbled and resigned to wait to pass the hours.

.- Another world exists there out.
I'm tired of saying it.
Since the salary in overtime pay,
Like jewelry for the blackbird,
Like water on dry land.


Another life haunts me and mine, not bad. Curro
much and I fall dead leaf
What gale. More


I affirm and assure that another world exists out there. Where
curro donkey is not
And there's no
troubling to make ends meet. Where
never misses a hard
And sleep until ten. Another


world exists out there and will be .... Pa grabs.

.- Tell me what you wear? -. Asked a customer who had just entered distracted .- A scholarship. Replied the boy looking at the four currencies that danced between the fingers of his left hand. He made the comment so funny that he was tempted not to charge the pen that he wanted to go. Took it and sat down to wait for the little voice.

Seeing that nothing was wrong, decided to transcribe the poems of the bard's voice was paying to fill its silences. Thanks to that we could know. That day three of the poems written you liked those who had heard so far. Because that is another, sometimes repeated and even enough to get to memorize. More accurately, those who put on paper were three: "I'm snake your hollow body", "How I'm worth cheese "and" Four goblins and many fairies. "

She continued her things everyday and when he returned home only had time to remove your shoes and lie on your couch, under his blanket. He took the book and reread the first loud. I

snake in your holes,
Inspector of your innermost being.
I ask you, smell, sniffing
And I saw with my kisses. I

scanner of your bones, your nerves
resonance, probe mysteries

A leaking if I see you. I
snake in your gaps.

criticism he received were so good that after three days, her best friend opened such free space to hang them on the internet and people could read them.



that day stood up with a phone call to remind her mother was her sister's birthday. Luckily he had no serious commitment for the morning and could stay a little longer skulking in bed. He reached out, grabbed a pad of sketches of the night table and began to write. It was 8, 35 hours a week of the coldest ever recorded between the marches of Granada. It was raining win, took a deep breath and looked out the window. He loved to breathe slow, slow, slow. Thus, concentrated, was in the position of a conductive petite that, stuck in a jam increasingly heated head to think he might be late for work. He set up the situation before them. It's something I used to do and, coincidentally, two weeks ago did not need to think about the images I wanted to recreate. I went alone.

The rest of the morning was devoted to clean the house, cleaning also review your email and transcribe their little stories and poems of the computer block.

was a day much like any other in the doctor's Ortiz fell to their regret on account of being out of stock of putty to cover the decay of their patients. Only you can spare a embers that had been the first patient from 08:00 am. He had kept fresh so it does not dry up but I knew for a fact that also could have pulled it save it and nothing was exactly the same thing ... I say: It also takes courage to fill a tooth at eight o'clock casually Monday.
On the other hand, both friends and family have always seen the doctor for a serious character, too hard even. To Mary, his youngest daughter, used to refer to him as "Ortiz", unless you need some money, then called him "Dad."
As I was pointing, the morning proved difficult for many. Ortiz raised not wanting to surprise 17-year old daughter while she changed clothes in the sink, rather than blushing, which is angry basilisk pursued by the Treasury inspector, to find two separate piercings on the nipples of her daughter. After a bizarre discussion with topless, Mary reluctantly decided to remove them and place them in the palm of his father .- "There you have. Eat "-.
were those with a ring and a ball in the middle, pure titanium. Put them in his coat pocket and forgot about them for a few hours. In the consultation, took out and laid on the cartridge clips of his desk. At that moment his eyes became serious for a few seconds and she shook her head.
.- "What a win that I have got married once and for all and stop worrying, for diossss" .- He thought to himself. At 10:00
Samanta his face appeared remorseful for the pain of the tooth and filling the future impending pain.
.- "See what I do here with this girl" -. He thought the best of Ortiz. He began to polish after killing the nerve for the tooth in question. When finished, the patient was under the influence of laughing gas. There was very fond of needles. Then Ortiz, began to make their calculations relying on data contained in the schedule of appointments for the day.
The solution was simple: He only had two fillings done, the putty was hardly alone and for a single tooth, but if you got a titanium ball into each hole, just come to meet the needs of the day .... And every god happy.
Coming out of the consultation, there was nothing naive to think the patient that his mouth had been tuned on the back of his will and, most of remorse, Ortiz's mind just spent the following question: "Do you will blow their whistles at the controls the airport? "
When it came time to get into bed, the good doctor and not even remember the metal teeth fillings or pierced nipples their teenage daughter.

Nestor Torre, an electrician by trade, born poet, also left with a gift without knowing impromptu consultation. He liked to work, in fact, occupied his whole life between cables and lines. The dangerous thing about this is that when the man entered his inspiration, its concentration decreased to critical levels. He could be faced with a bundle of frayed wires high voltage, if picked up in the middle of a rhyme or would not realize the danger. And it was. To leave the office, still dazed, he set out to repair an electric fence for the cattle of one of its customers.
"Every time you breathe
No expect it. Every time you sleep

feel or think,
I'll be watching. Whenever
cry every time
laugh, every time

dream every night, every day,
'll be watching.
I'll be watching even though I hate
Because you follow desire, and to me more than
Because I belong "
not even noticed the surge recorded in the ammeter. Forgot to put on the gloves well, those without holes. The shock threw him back several feet flying in the opposite direction to the fence. In conclusion, two months out with the creeps.
He thought he could be due to effects of the accident, from that day on, every time down the guard, in his mind images and feelings arose that did not belong. Mismatches, he thought it would be very useful for the creation times that lay ahead. In fact, his own life was often without argument to the creative fertility.
Both created a special connection and improbable without realizing, I had a good time together and thinking, until today, at least to my knowledge, nobody has been able to say that I hear discussed. More than anything because I always felt the presence of others and not missed until one of the two out of the city. Were supplemented to the extent play mentally solve other problems for the simple pleasure of feeling relief.
The perfect match, come on.
My case is almost irrelevant in this story. Just a connecting thread, the first to realize that the poems Samanta Fuentes hung on its website and had seen somewhere.
Nestor Torre went through my home shortly after the accident. She felt that her life had changed beyond what I expected to wake up after downloading and decided marked for life tattooing one of those phrases that have always been present as a moral axiom. I had already gone before; am getting tattooed things like "Carpe Diem", "The sell moto "(in Chinese characters, of course)," Mi Vida Loca ", names of relatives," Love Mom ", but this time, my (from then) Nestor dear friend asked me to leave him in the neck a nice "Joe shosho, which fill." During
told me he was a poet and had the pleasure of hearing some of his compositions.
effort I put them in touch, I talked to both and, if I say the truth, I was pleasantly surprised that give me the same answer:
"No more, thanks. We're all right "so

Birthday Wishes Romanian

Vampireando1.0

- There were moments where I got suspicious. All indications could easily be one of them, the institute's freaks. In fact, classmates laughed at me for wearing long those dark glasses, and eye! When I say "long", I mean the first 20 minutes, in which books are removed and discussing fashion television show the day before, no. I'm talking about months, almost a full year asking for vouchers for the raffle on Saturday .... to the teachers, come on. I had a vision problem quite common, but not my age or people with my eye color, darker than the more common photophobic, a problem that forced me to wear dark glasses even in moments in which the lights were artificial. As he said, had teachers who were allowed the pleasure of spending little jokes with the other students as: "See, you read" - "Who, me?" He asked, silly me-"No, not the blind man, the next door, that if you can, "replied the very bud, causing general laughter to defuse the atmosphere .- I was not sure until it reach puberty. The taste of the "bisteles" which was as I called the steaks, it was so very attractive that came to hide behind the smallest corners of the neighborhood, to swallow some of these delicacies at one sitting, in abandoned the old nursery, dark palm grove, in the crumbling and neglected barracks of a residential electricity abandoned in the back of the wholesale market, which only entered the loading and unloading trucks in the blackness of my room .. . .- The majority of mothers I know would be more than proud that their children develop a taste for meat as I was .... Surely, I would have thought twice before you answer if the question was whether they would like their children as a junkie hooked to all kinds of fresh meat, fresh cut almost throbbing. With a lot of blood .- At the time, simple to eat a gum, was waiting for me invite friends So I walked as little capital as my shoes, almost like the rest of the little boy in the community. I mean, I could not afford very often this kind of luxury. And do you think he spent a single drive in the market to buy meat, you could just say I have luck and put me on the road, not who, but it was there and if it was, I managed to make was; He only had to reach out and grab it. He was aware that my outbursts were not at all normal but I had to get used to the idea and accept it: he had a serious problem .- The first time I gave to the wild, "now that I see from afar it seems a savage - was on a breakaway to the mountain that lies just outside the living room window of our house. Maybe I should not say "fair", as he was thrown a few tens of meters, and what is seen from the lounge are a pair of road in different directions and other buildings like our apartment official protection, but only three stories high, so let me enjoy clear and generally, the view of the mountains .- Well, say that at its peak, a construction was intended to build a luxury residential compound, for what that, on an interim basis, the ministry of building a road dropped describing a circuit where you can access all homes to mention a series of bunkers where control of light cables. Little more could be done. After striking a good couple of bites of poor mountain, found that the material was not for the delicate palates, and vomited everything eaten to leave unhappy and leave the circuit and bare and empty bunkers .- Most of the time mountain was the area of \u200b\u200breflection and solitude. Used to walk looking for signs of the past so remote from my neighborhood, such as abandoned cars, cans, even thought it would come to find a bag full of money and accompanied by a charcoal-stained revolver, but the most interesting thing I discovered was the river dry waste of the construction. Other times, the stage became legendary and furtive impromptu motorcycle racing between "pendejúos" more eggs on the island. The scandal raised could be heard for miles .... But that day was the quiet .- Find the most sensible way to get into a bunker. They had the input on the roof and its structure was submerged under the road level. Access was via a rickety metal ladder to a height of five or six feet and came to lead a room of about seventy square meters, with high concrete boxes that served as an improvised seat browser otr @ s @ s like me. There was to measure the amount of current that would pass the houses at the time worked, but copper is paid, and stole all the cables of bunkers, as well as that of most of the streetlights in the neighborhood. I saw remains of the passage of others, few of its original settlers. This meant that although alone, the place was frequently visited by @ s otr @ s boring freshwater browsers, but for me, seemed to be years of disorder and neglect .- My imagination is crazy trying to overcome the setbacks that fate had imposed on the dirty agujero.Nada could have made me imagine what would happen next. Knew I was alone, because to my knowledge, no one passing through these sites, therefore, the desperate cry for some kind of baby mortally wounded, I did hit a boat that I was almost out of the bunker. I looked terrified the stairs to get out and cry went up in intensity. My eyes went ahead Restless find a single sign that did understand what was going on. Suddenly one of my pupils got to filter the image that even today I have etched in memory: one of the gates rumbrientas drawer cables shaking on its hinges. Something with pink skin and bleeding was struggling while giving vent to his lungs to loosen the tolling of a throat desperate. It appeared that a wild dog and nervous in my chest struggles to get out and the unmistakable chill of fear sweat soaked me back. Anyone know at the time, what kind of creature would come out of cajón.En frustrated when their construction, the mountain was pierced for two reasons: the system of electricity and sewerage. Both as Acabal and with so much success, they came to improvised galleries to share both functions, galleries flowed into the drawers of the bunkers to the left collapsed new doors open to the bugs and little animals that were grown in the wet alcantarillas.La creaking door again and instinctively I bent to search the ground for something to open. I tripped over the hose bundles of high tension cables, hard plastic and cylindrical shape. I grabbed her and forcefully pushed the door fell with alarming scandal and dirty in a cloud of dust. Suddenly, I felt like my ankle was shook under the pressure of the sharp teeth of a ball of gray hair and a long tail that snaked like the Indiana Jones whip. I beat the giant rat several times with plastic tubing, so the only thing that I felt after was a steady, strong beat while blood ran down my dust pie.Miles bubbles bubbling on the ground shrieking and beating hose . The air became unbearable and my throat dried up so fast ... was so thirsty. I tried to swallow, but the only thing that went down my throat were balls of dust, hair spray and rat shit. The lungs had set me on fire and burning tears ran down my face and neck mixing with the dust and dirt and scab forming grooves in my skin. When my body without force not hitting me going blind I could only find a safe piece of wall to lean on and wait for everything to become calmer. Slowly, very slowly, the cloud of dirt was cleared and the atmosphere was left in silence. My pseudo-breathing was still agitated sounds produced by the irritation of my alveoli. Trying to stay calm was when I fell into tears. Still playing but this time more and more low, inside the cabinet. I could not help approach. I was so nervous that I did some strong uncontrollable pangs gland behind the wheels and still not detuve.Se I was a baby cat. A newborn baby and the strange fate of being the only one who survived the attack of rats. He looked so helpless, that the sentence made me pity her and grabbed her hand that I was free. In this position not unlike the rats, except for the ears and bushy tail. I could see his back shaking shaken. Notice the wetness of her blood soaking the back of my hand, it seems that was hurt. I opened my hand to flip it for cleaning the bleeding. With patience I was removing pieces of stone and dust that had clotted with blood. Then I realized the wound of the abdomen, a court hinted more than just a little blood and broken skin. That poor child was dying slowly in my fingers due to a gap in the sting of the troubled stirred ratas.Se blowing a thin trickle of blood on my lips. I can swear to all sorts of laws and religions, that feeling had never appeared among the many with whom I give away the senses. Thousands of invisible arms pulled my eyebrows, my eyelashes, my cheeks, and most of my mouth towards the hole in the gut, was almost without thinking, in a second, blood and guts went in my throat, and with it a wrenching chills bristling up last pore of my skin. Than any orgasm. More powerful than most of the sorpresas.Al after a few minutes, I found myself licking the last traces of animal blood and I could not understand how I could get to that situation. The animal's eyes had become glassy, \u200b\u200ba light blue color of muerte.Esperé to fall the night and left the bunker to address moldy nowhere, dirty, confused and disoriented.