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Sunday, July 19, 2009
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Monday, July 6, 2009
10 Facts About Trench Foot
...
I woke up suddenly with a start. The sky is gray, black. As the random dance of electrons on a screen CRT.
I fell asleep in the same way. But my brain kept going ... A stream of abstract images. Lampi. Connections sudden, impromptu. Anxiety.
I came to realize there the next morning. The digital clock beside the bed marked seven twenty-four. I got up.
I had slept little and badly and I knew it, but my mind was clear. Anxiety hallucinated last night was a memory, now living in a mixture of apathy and resignation glossy.
I was conscious of having groped for broke. There was nothing left to do. I thought about looking at the sky or what remained: an expanse of clouds as thick as black as coal.
And I thought the sky of the Child, that blue that I had not seen again after the revolution.
lit terminal and for a moment I thought I had dreamed it all. All one, terrible, terrible, immense nightmare. At that tasted happiness, a happiness bitter, how bitter it was to compare the situation in which I knew, by implication, in that moment of stupid illusion of being. And we hoped, once again we hoped: the connection was back, Subnet that was still standing. Nothing. The green monitor phosphors emit light alternately to form the message: no response. Unable to connect.
the cursor flashing undaunted as nothing had happened, as if the screen was the expected result of a routine code translated into machine language. I mocked. Do not know that death was also the Subnet his death? Who wrote that code? Many years ago ... clouds ... mist ... gray ... blue ... Lightning-electric-...
Turn the page, dear reader, what are you waiting? Turn the page ... Oh yeah, you're right, that careless, this is not a book, this is a blog. Times have changed a bit 'since the Italian was dear to taken with its winter travelers ... Well, but then scroll down with that mouse, come on, I must tell you everything? where ever we have seen that a writer must tell the reader what to do? The writer has to write his book, his blog ... ..., saran 'then let the reader find a way to read it ... How to end here? But if it is only the beginning ... Is that all? The writer instead of continuing with the story wanders in stupid phrases in which it addresses the reader? Or is this then ... who does he think he is?
Well, the rest of the novel must have been lost ... in a place ... the publisher, reader, you have to go at the publishing house eeee ... quindiiiii ... then puntoooo ... There is no home publishing, yes, the blog ...
Well, dear reader, I just know the answer to this riddle ... See, the fact is that your writer did not feel like writing ... all ... I hope you will forgive, he does not arrogance, nor to give himself airs, just do not have time, do not want to, writes the beginning and then gets tired ... is obliged to imitate those who did it for size.
But in truth, dear reader, you have some fault too ... Yes, at this time because the writer does not even know if you exist or never existed, dear reader ... Maybe you, hypothetical reader, you may not be more than the writer himself and no other ... because writing is at once the most selfish and more altruistic in the world ... a stream of energy towards the hypothetical ... to lure 'himself.
I woke up suddenly with a start. The sky is gray, black. As the random dance of electrons on a screen CRT.
I fell asleep in the same way. But my brain kept going ... A stream of abstract images. Lampi. Connections sudden, impromptu. Anxiety.
I came to realize there the next morning. The digital clock beside the bed marked seven twenty-four. I got up.
I had slept little and badly and I knew it, but my mind was clear. Anxiety hallucinated last night was a memory, now living in a mixture of apathy and resignation glossy.
I was conscious of having groped for broke. There was nothing left to do. I thought about looking at the sky or what remained: an expanse of clouds as thick as black as coal.
And I thought the sky of the Child, that blue that I had not seen again after the revolution.
lit terminal and for a moment I thought I had dreamed it all. All one, terrible, terrible, immense nightmare. At that tasted happiness, a happiness bitter, how bitter it was to compare the situation in which I knew, by implication, in that moment of stupid illusion of being. And we hoped, once again we hoped: the connection was back, Subnet that was still standing. Nothing. The green monitor phosphors emit light alternately to form the message: no response. Unable to connect.
the cursor flashing undaunted as nothing had happened, as if the screen was the expected result of a routine code translated into machine language. I mocked. Do not know that death was also the Subnet his death? Who wrote that code? Many years ago ... clouds ... mist ... gray ... blue ... Lightning-electric-...
Turn the page, dear reader, what are you waiting? Turn the page ... Oh yeah, you're right, that careless, this is not a book, this is a blog. Times have changed a bit 'since the Italian was dear to taken with its winter travelers ... Well, but then scroll down with that mouse, come on, I must tell you everything? where ever we have seen that a writer must tell the reader what to do? The writer has to write his book, his blog ... ..., saran 'then let the reader find a way to read it ... How to end here? But if it is only the beginning ... Is that all? The writer instead of continuing with the story wanders in stupid phrases in which it addresses the reader? Or is this then ... who does he think he is?
Well, the rest of the novel must have been lost ... in a place ... the publisher, reader, you have to go at the publishing house eeee ... quindiiiii ... then puntoooo ... There is no home publishing, yes, the blog ...
Well, dear reader, I just know the answer to this riddle ... See, the fact is that your writer did not feel like writing ... all ... I hope you will forgive, he does not arrogance, nor to give himself airs, just do not have time, do not want to, writes the beginning and then gets tired ... is obliged to imitate those who did it for size.
But in truth, dear reader, you have some fault too ... Yes, at this time because the writer does not even know if you exist or never existed, dear reader ... Maybe you, hypothetical reader, you may not be more than the writer himself and no other ... because writing is at once the most selfish and more altruistic in the world ... a stream of energy towards the hypothetical ... to lure 'himself.
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