is better? Will's worse? one wonders every year.
Let's face it: Life is always dangerous!
Erich Kaestner
In this sense, a happy and healthy new year!
Simone
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Systolic And Diastolic Close Together
Happy New Year!
is better? Will's worse? one wonders every year.
Let's face it: Life is always dangerous!
Erich Kaestner
In this sense, a happy and healthy new year!
Simone
is better? Will's worse? one wonders every year.
Let's face it: Life is always dangerous!
Erich Kaestner
In this sense, a happy and healthy new year!
Simone
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Driving Licence For Scooter In The Netherlands
Merry Christmas
Christmas is indeed always associated with stress. Everything should be especially nice. The tree must be decorated, the presents are bought. But between all the stress, one should not forget the things that make the spirit of Christmas really is, even if - like me - is not necessarily religious. These are very small things, like calling an old friend you have lost sight of, or just to say thank you to those who are always there for when you need them and very unselfish. For that is but what it really is Christmas. I wish
you all a Merry Christmas and a great party among the people you love.
Greetings
Simone
Thank
for M.
It was dusk and glow in the windows, lights.
soon falls the day and night spreads in the country.
A cold wind bites her feverish faces.
And all the world seems ready for Christmas.
My heart beats softly, but persistently, to me seconds.
Your eyes show me the way out of the past.
Every word and all of the completed hours are
me gifts for eternity. The time
of the search is over: now begins to find.
do you manage to retain confidence in my braid
and stick a plaster on the toe grazed.
blow once more and then it no longer hurts.
And like a splintering ice crystals on my window sill,
have you, healthy and loved with a smile, tell me.
© Simone wedge 12.24.2009 
Christmas is indeed always associated with stress. Everything should be especially nice. The tree must be decorated, the presents are bought. But between all the stress, one should not forget the things that make the spirit of Christmas really is, even if - like me - is not necessarily religious. These are very small things, like calling an old friend you have lost sight of, or just to say thank you to those who are always there for when you need them and very unselfish. For that is but what it really is Christmas. I wish
you all a Merry Christmas and a great party among the people you love.
Greetings
Simone
Thank
for M.
It was dusk and glow in the windows, lights.
soon falls the day and night spreads in the country.
A cold wind bites her feverish faces.
And all the world seems ready for Christmas.
My heart beats softly, but persistently, to me seconds.
Your eyes show me the way out of the past.
Every word and all of the completed hours are
me gifts for eternity. The time
of the search is over: now begins to find.
do you manage to retain confidence in my braid
and stick a plaster on the toe grazed.
blow once more and then it no longer hurts.
And like a splintering ice crystals on my window sill,
have you, healthy and loved with a smile, tell me.
© Simone wedge 12.24.2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Japanese Women Girdles
бабушка
in the living room window towards the light burns. None of these work lights where you bring a thread through a narrow needle's eye to a button on the white Sunday shirt sewing or reading the newspaper. It is dim and warm. Too hot to do everyday things but cool enough to keep each other's hands.
I have no gloves on. Forgotten, despite temperatures that must be now reached minus 20 degrees. Simply forgotten. And it gets even colder. The stars are packed in the clouds. Empty snow, weary clouds. There must be a wonderful feeling to pull the white mass around, hineinzupressen the tip of the nose and breathe in the winter.
My shadow comes from one leg to the other. He can not bear to remain in one place. Perhaps because he then becomes aware of its secondary nature. Maybe it is just cold. Everything sparkles and glows
. I crush all snow Christ, under my thick leather soles. Crunches and cracks and smells of the kitchen of my grandmother. Cinnamon and hot cider. And their massive arms, which I take the air. And her laughter in my heart. It utilizes the entire free space. Flits from ventricle to ventricle. Playing hide in the capillaries. It tickles and I tremble in my thin jacket on.
My shadow is getting impatient. It moves away from me, just enough that the connection is not broken. He's right, it's time. My fingertips are numb. I have trouble making a fist. The body at my feet no longer move for minutes. A trickle of red discoloration of fresh snow.
I grab his collar and pull him to me approach. His right eye is swollen shut and their skin glows purple just below the red I to propose. The pain races through my icy rights, goes through my arm, shoulder, collarbone and takes his place. In the courtyard of my heart. The light in the window is gone, as the laughter of my grandmother.
© Simone wedge 2009 
in the living room window towards the light burns. None of these work lights where you bring a thread through a narrow needle's eye to a button on the white Sunday shirt sewing or reading the newspaper. It is dim and warm. Too hot to do everyday things but cool enough to keep each other's hands.
I have no gloves on. Forgotten, despite temperatures that must be now reached minus 20 degrees. Simply forgotten. And it gets even colder. The stars are packed in the clouds. Empty snow, weary clouds. There must be a wonderful feeling to pull the white mass around, hineinzupressen the tip of the nose and breathe in the winter.
My shadow comes from one leg to the other. He can not bear to remain in one place. Perhaps because he then becomes aware of its secondary nature. Maybe it is just cold. Everything sparkles and glows
. I crush all snow Christ, under my thick leather soles. Crunches and cracks and smells of the kitchen of my grandmother. Cinnamon and hot cider. And their massive arms, which I take the air. And her laughter in my heart. It utilizes the entire free space. Flits from ventricle to ventricle. Playing hide in the capillaries. It tickles and I tremble in my thin jacket on.
My shadow is getting impatient. It moves away from me, just enough that the connection is not broken. He's right, it's time. My fingertips are numb. I have trouble making a fist. The body at my feet no longer move for minutes. A trickle of red discoloration of fresh snow.
I grab his collar and pull him to me approach. His right eye is swollen shut and their skin glows purple just below the red I to propose. The pain races through my icy rights, goes through my arm, shoulder, collarbone and takes his place. In the courtyard of my heart. The light in the window is gone, as the laughter of my grandmother.
© Simone wedge 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
How To Remove Stains Le Creuset
Jasmin in winter
If my body is Christallglas, and disclose my skin is the view of burgundy veins, I wish someone would drink up me and my empty shell smash on the wall. Sometimes it's hard to not break to.
My days are roaring and humming. Outside my window moves the world. I'm caught in an endless slow-motion loop. 22.20 Clock and I live. Still. Yesterday, he said - and he looked like trips and falls - that He will finish it. To clock 22.18. He is a liar and a master of words. One day I will know who he really is. And I will see. What to know. That's what separates the night from day. My night is waiting. For the morning. On the next beat of my heart. Or on his silence.
you have saved me the paper and pencil. I write in the air. On the wall. On the ground. With my fingers. I've been biting my fingers. My blood is so sluggish, as the room air. I wish my mind it would be. The letters swirl through my head, bounce off my forehead. Knock and scrape and pucks. They burn behind my eyes as the smoke of incense.
syllable strings tighten in the corners of the room. Connect to networks, word. In them, He. These include: I. If the room is full of its networks, I will not be able to move. I will choke on his stories.
Jasmin in fog. Jasmine with bare feet. Jasmin crumbles to dust and laughs. And the olive trees to grab a piece of the sky. It spits on their branches. Cotton candy, sticky sweetness. The moon winks frightened by the hole in the clouds down upon us. I Klaube on - jasmine - climb Mount Arafat. Scatter them among the white down, the buzz around my head. Frau Holle not pray. She washes and cleans and shaken from their beds. Jasmine in the snow. Jasmine with empty eyes. No one stoned me on the way down. I wish he would be silent.
Some days are good. Some days are silent and loud. Sister Elena says, you have to go back to the beginning, then one can choose his way. She easily persuaded in their world of white cotton underwear and flat screens. In the morning a jam sandwiches and dinner cheese pasta and Walter. Or Steve or Fred. Sister Elena has not heard his stories. She sings German hits the floor and rattling the porcelain. She beheads vials and administered bee sting. She is not glass. It is substance.
key rattle and squeaky hinges. Sister Elena hands me a bucket of water and a rag. Speechless. Behind her, a guard. He watched me not, but. She is never alone with me. I wash my life from the walls while waiting at the door. I'll write it again and again. She knows and I know it.
"You have to try way back," she says, "if one tries, one can do anything."
I nod and manage to smile. Above her head, he spins on his stories. I try not to look.
"Your mother wants to visit. Tomorrow afternoon. You should talk to her. "
Humpty Dumpty sat on the corner, Humpty Dumpty fell in the mud. I press my palms to my ears. And the king with his army, Could not put Humpty Dumpty. Sister Elena throws fresh sheets on the mattress and locks herself in her hit floor. And from me.
Maybe they give me back pen and paper, if I promise to attend meetings. Maybe if I deny Him. On my account there are more than 30 pieces of silver. Sister Elena'd like the sea, they said. She likes water and wind. She likes the sound of the waves and the summer.
jasmine blooms in winter. Minus 18 degrees. I embed the foot of the Mount of Olives, weeping. Jasmine in the snow. Her white dress - red. Jasmin under the January sun, which is changing and is silent.
Dr. Rosenberg shakes his head. Rubs his forehead. His skin is greyish-brown. Parchment. I wish I had a pen. He puts his glasses on the files. "They suffer from a severe post-traumatic stress syndrome." He looks at me with his mole's eyes. "We can help you, but only if you cooperate."
I nod and say it again on my little piece. Say what is expected of me. Sister Elena is sitting beside the desk. She is about me, stroking his head and push me back my pencil in hand. She crossed her arms over her chest. I knubble the associations around my wrists.
"It is not to say it," says Dr. Rosenberg, "You have to realize it. You have to understand it and you need to know that it is the truth. "
The truth is a speckled skin on 23 December. Nothing else. No hocus-pocus, no sand male from the small plastic cup can change that. Dream sand burns your eyes, such as methyl alcohol in the throat.
22.18 clock over. Again. He hangs on the index finger of the clock. Draws breath and smiles. Shakes his head. In his hand taken Jasmine to a bouquet. Its fragrance robs me the view. Peter Pan knew. We must not grow up. Not all kisses in the world. Growing up is to forget. Forgotten how to fly.
Jasmin flies high. Jasmin flies fast. I'm starting to. My reflexes are awake. Jasmin in a white dress. Aqueous dawn. The mark on her forehead. I close the bag and the rod shoulder. Inshallah. A land mine legs severed from his body. Masseltoff! And he laughs at me. He knows what my flowers.
© 2009 Simone wedge
(The story finished in 1st place of the first prose competition of e-Literatum, October 2009. The text, the conditions of participation and the jury can be read here .) 
If my body is Christallglas, and disclose my skin is the view of burgundy veins, I wish someone would drink up me and my empty shell smash on the wall. Sometimes it's hard to not break to.
My days are roaring and humming. Outside my window moves the world. I'm caught in an endless slow-motion loop. 22.20 Clock and I live. Still. Yesterday, he said - and he looked like trips and falls - that He will finish it. To clock 22.18. He is a liar and a master of words. One day I will know who he really is. And I will see. What to know. That's what separates the night from day. My night is waiting. For the morning. On the next beat of my heart. Or on his silence.
you have saved me the paper and pencil. I write in the air. On the wall. On the ground. With my fingers. I've been biting my fingers. My blood is so sluggish, as the room air. I wish my mind it would be. The letters swirl through my head, bounce off my forehead. Knock and scrape and pucks. They burn behind my eyes as the smoke of incense.
syllable strings tighten in the corners of the room. Connect to networks, word. In them, He. These include: I. If the room is full of its networks, I will not be able to move. I will choke on his stories.
Jasmin in fog. Jasmine with bare feet. Jasmin crumbles to dust and laughs. And the olive trees to grab a piece of the sky. It spits on their branches. Cotton candy, sticky sweetness. The moon winks frightened by the hole in the clouds down upon us. I Klaube on - jasmine - climb Mount Arafat. Scatter them among the white down, the buzz around my head. Frau Holle not pray. She washes and cleans and shaken from their beds. Jasmine in the snow. Jasmine with empty eyes. No one stoned me on the way down. I wish he would be silent.
Some days are good. Some days are silent and loud. Sister Elena says, you have to go back to the beginning, then one can choose his way. She easily persuaded in their world of white cotton underwear and flat screens. In the morning a jam sandwiches and dinner cheese pasta and Walter. Or Steve or Fred. Sister Elena has not heard his stories. She sings German hits the floor and rattling the porcelain. She beheads vials and administered bee sting. She is not glass. It is substance.
key rattle and squeaky hinges. Sister Elena hands me a bucket of water and a rag. Speechless. Behind her, a guard. He watched me not, but. She is never alone with me. I wash my life from the walls while waiting at the door. I'll write it again and again. She knows and I know it.
"You have to try way back," she says, "if one tries, one can do anything."
I nod and manage to smile. Above her head, he spins on his stories. I try not to look.
"Your mother wants to visit. Tomorrow afternoon. You should talk to her. "
Humpty Dumpty sat on the corner, Humpty Dumpty fell in the mud. I press my palms to my ears. And the king with his army, Could not put Humpty Dumpty. Sister Elena throws fresh sheets on the mattress and locks herself in her hit floor. And from me.
Maybe they give me back pen and paper, if I promise to attend meetings. Maybe if I deny Him. On my account there are more than 30 pieces of silver. Sister Elena'd like the sea, they said. She likes water and wind. She likes the sound of the waves and the summer.
jasmine blooms in winter. Minus 18 degrees. I embed the foot of the Mount of Olives, weeping. Jasmine in the snow. Her white dress - red. Jasmin under the January sun, which is changing and is silent.
Dr. Rosenberg shakes his head. Rubs his forehead. His skin is greyish-brown. Parchment. I wish I had a pen. He puts his glasses on the files. "They suffer from a severe post-traumatic stress syndrome." He looks at me with his mole's eyes. "We can help you, but only if you cooperate."
I nod and say it again on my little piece. Say what is expected of me. Sister Elena is sitting beside the desk. She is about me, stroking his head and push me back my pencil in hand. She crossed her arms over her chest. I knubble the associations around my wrists.
"It is not to say it," says Dr. Rosenberg, "You have to realize it. You have to understand it and you need to know that it is the truth. "
The truth is a speckled skin on 23 December. Nothing else. No hocus-pocus, no sand male from the small plastic cup can change that. Dream sand burns your eyes, such as methyl alcohol in the throat.
22.18 clock over. Again. He hangs on the index finger of the clock. Draws breath and smiles. Shakes his head. In his hand taken Jasmine to a bouquet. Its fragrance robs me the view. Peter Pan knew. We must not grow up. Not all kisses in the world. Growing up is to forget. Forgotten how to fly.
Jasmin flies high. Jasmin flies fast. I'm starting to. My reflexes are awake. Jasmin in a white dress. Aqueous dawn. The mark on her forehead. I close the bag and the rod shoulder. Inshallah. A land mine legs severed from his body. Masseltoff! And he laughs at me. He knows what my flowers.
© 2009 Simone wedge
(The story finished in 1st place of the first prose competition of e-Literatum, October 2009. The text, the conditions of participation and the jury can be read here .)
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Julia Robers In The Pocka Dot Dress
Memento mori!
of Margot S. Baumann
blurb:
Abbé Kilian kills the age of five his alcoholic physically violent father with a wasp nest. Then he is taken to Ticino in an institution for maladjusted adolescents. There begins a cruel time for him. Massimo, a gay inmate forces Abbé sexual acts. When the humiliations of a Day be too big, he tried to flee.
These memories follow Abbé his life and he does things that he can remember later only fragmentary. In order to finally gain the recognition and admiration, which it is entitled to his opinion, he decides to become a famous writer. But even this path paved with the death of Abbé.
The novel not only tells the story of the protagonist, but can take a soul at his life and find the trigger for his actions, lying in his childhood.
Some places - especially in the childhood of the protagonist and his relationship with his Father - are not for the squeamish, but I find these open descriptions make the story authentic and credible because it actually witnessed noticeable.
exciting, engaging, and just right for stormy autumn evenings by the fireplace. click to Amazon.
of Margot S. Baumann
blurb:
Abbé Kilian kills the age of five his alcoholic physically violent father with a wasp nest. Then he is taken to Ticino in an institution for maladjusted adolescents. There begins a cruel time for him. Massimo, a gay inmate forces Abbé sexual acts. When the humiliations of a Day be too big, he tried to flee.
These memories follow Abbé his life and he does things that he can remember later only fragmentary. In order to finally gain the recognition and admiration, which it is entitled to his opinion, he decides to become a famous writer. But even this path paved with the death of Abbé.
The novel not only tells the story of the protagonist, but can take a soul at his life and find the trigger for his actions, lying in his childhood.
Some places - especially in the childhood of the protagonist and his relationship with his Father - are not for the squeamish, but I find these open descriptions make the story authentic and credible because it actually witnessed noticeable.
exciting, engaging, and just right for stormy autumn evenings by the fireplace. click to Amazon.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Washing Machine Replace Bearing Estimate
mold in your head
The time has eaten much. She has bitten off and swallowed Erinnerungsbröckchen before she fell asleep satisfied burping. What is left is a stinking hole cheese on bread. And I did. Even if I do not know who that is.
There are days when I can remember. The taste of cranberries. The smell of young full-moon nights. The chords of 'Get It While You Can'. And the sunrise in Frisco.
We lay on the hood of Chevys. We touched us not. Not with your hands. The hiss as the sun broke out of the bay. Cinnabar red iron. And your eyes. Tri-color. Gray, green and brown. Flowing into each other Saturn rings clung to the black hole of your pupil. And I was absorbed.
are in my fridge a carton of milk, half a bar of milk chocolate and a pair of my tennis socks next to the Saturday newspaper. I put the letter from the insurance company in the large vegetable drawer and close the door. My stomach growls.
Did you know that most people in her bed ? Die Lie down, close my eyes and not wake up. A beautiful death is called then. I will not die Sun I will resign with a bang. And if it's just a final fart. I have to buy bulbs.
It is raining. Of course, the sky ripped me. But he can tell me, I will not go back in and kleinbeigeben. Never again. I stroll to the corner shop on the corner and take a bag of onions from the display rack outside the front door. Two blocks and five threads of thought later, I throw it in a dumpster. The clouds rub against the telephone pole. It roars and crackles, and empty. My eyes burn, but I do not know if I cry. In the gutter
I lie, only much older. Head on one arm, the other a bottle of brown booze. I want to pull the bottle from his hand and bend down over my body. Old me awake and sees me behind the reddened eyes. I realize I'm reaching out and the bottle. Spill something on my finger. It smells of yesterday. To forget. I make a fist and hit me in the face. Again and again. Blood and whiskey.
On the wall is a woman. Your face looks like winter at sea. She sings 'Summertime' ... and the living is easy ... shit. I'm staring at the scarred skin of my hands. Counting my fingers. The windows of the houses. My heart beat.
Then I'll be at your doorstep. Water drops on my nose. To buy my Nikes in a puddle and I mess around a bit in it. As when we fled before the downpour. I was scared that the lightning strikes and we roast, with all the straw and the cows. Burger special, you said, that would be something. Then you closed your eyes and inhale the stroke of thunder. The steel sides of my guitar cut in my finger tips and reminded me that I live.
You open the door and take my hand. It feels like coming home. You look in his eyes. You did it, you say no, I say, and now I know it really tears.
you dry my hair with a red towel and kisses my forehead. We look to an old live recording. This recording is shit. The soundtrack of a thunderstorm noise. My guitar laughs at me. I snuggle into your elbow and close my eyes. A horse gallops
by my right ear and throws himself with full force against the ear drum. My head is vibrating. I try the applied stallion with a shake of the head to carry out. No chance. He takes off and drives back towards his goal. If he does so, he manages to tonight determined to break through the wall and penetrate into my brain. I wonder what he intended it. Although this may be unimportant. I counted his starts and the impact vibrations. We at 58th I'm tired. I can not sleep.
Yesterday I dreamed I had cancer. Incurable. Metastases in all organs. Maybe two months and over. Liver, kidney, lung, all in the bucket. And the heart. From ingestion of small black corridors that lead nowhere but into the darkness. Black, dark black, nothing else. It has not bother me to die. And I was not afraid of the dark. But I was scared. Afraid to tell you can not, how it feels to be dead.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
The time has eaten much. She has bitten off and swallowed Erinnerungsbröckchen before she fell asleep satisfied burping. What is left is a stinking hole cheese on bread. And I did. Even if I do not know who that is.
There are days when I can remember. The taste of cranberries. The smell of young full-moon nights. The chords of 'Get It While You Can'. And the sunrise in Frisco.
We lay on the hood of Chevys. We touched us not. Not with your hands. The hiss as the sun broke out of the bay. Cinnabar red iron. And your eyes. Tri-color. Gray, green and brown. Flowing into each other Saturn rings clung to the black hole of your pupil. And I was absorbed.
are in my fridge a carton of milk, half a bar of milk chocolate and a pair of my tennis socks next to the Saturday newspaper. I put the letter from the insurance company in the large vegetable drawer and close the door. My stomach growls.
Did you know that most people in her bed ? Die Lie down, close my eyes and not wake up. A beautiful death is called then. I will not die Sun I will resign with a bang. And if it's just a final fart. I have to buy bulbs.
It is raining. Of course, the sky ripped me. But he can tell me, I will not go back in and kleinbeigeben. Never again. I stroll to the corner shop on the corner and take a bag of onions from the display rack outside the front door. Two blocks and five threads of thought later, I throw it in a dumpster. The clouds rub against the telephone pole. It roars and crackles, and empty. My eyes burn, but I do not know if I cry. In the gutter
I lie, only much older. Head on one arm, the other a bottle of brown booze. I want to pull the bottle from his hand and bend down over my body. Old me awake and sees me behind the reddened eyes. I realize I'm reaching out and the bottle. Spill something on my finger. It smells of yesterday. To forget. I make a fist and hit me in the face. Again and again. Blood and whiskey.
On the wall is a woman. Your face looks like winter at sea. She sings 'Summertime' ... and the living is easy ... shit. I'm staring at the scarred skin of my hands. Counting my fingers. The windows of the houses. My heart beat.
Then I'll be at your doorstep. Water drops on my nose. To buy my Nikes in a puddle and I mess around a bit in it. As when we fled before the downpour. I was scared that the lightning strikes and we roast, with all the straw and the cows. Burger special, you said, that would be something. Then you closed your eyes and inhale the stroke of thunder. The steel sides of my guitar cut in my finger tips and reminded me that I live.
You open the door and take my hand. It feels like coming home. You look in his eyes. You did it, you say no, I say, and now I know it really tears.
you dry my hair with a red towel and kisses my forehead. We look to an old live recording. This recording is shit. The soundtrack of a thunderstorm noise. My guitar laughs at me. I snuggle into your elbow and close my eyes. A horse gallops
by my right ear and throws himself with full force against the ear drum. My head is vibrating. I try the applied stallion with a shake of the head to carry out. No chance. He takes off and drives back towards his goal. If he does so, he manages to tonight determined to break through the wall and penetrate into my brain. I wonder what he intended it. Although this may be unimportant. I counted his starts and the impact vibrations. We at 58th I'm tired. I can not sleep.
Yesterday I dreamed I had cancer. Incurable. Metastases in all organs. Maybe two months and over. Liver, kidney, lung, all in the bucket. And the heart. From ingestion of small black corridors that lead nowhere but into the darkness. Black, dark black, nothing else. It has not bother me to die. And I was not afraid of the dark. But I was scared. Afraid to tell you can not, how it feels to be dead.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Denise Milani Mastubate
The book was never written
Uwe Knietsch published this year finally after 22 years in the second edition ... staring you here
I abstain a comment, one has to see itself :-D 
Uwe Knietsch published this year finally after 22 years in the second edition ... staring you here
I abstain a comment, one has to see itself :-D
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
How Long Does Interior Paint Last In The Can
Schätzing Frank, what is the best-selling formula?
His first book was a success, "The Swarm" has been translated in 17 languages to date and should soon be filmed Frank Schätzing, won awards, is a guarantee for quota - an interview from the "SZ over the weekend."
click to interview
The man I am still very likeable. I think I am the swarm of dust for a few weeks in my bookcase in front of him, then take a look in attack.
His first book was a success, "The Swarm" has been translated in 17 languages to date and should soon be filmed Frank Schätzing, won awards, is a guarantee for quota - an interview from the "SZ over the weekend."
click to interview
The man I am still very likeable. I think I am the swarm of dust for a few weeks in my bookcase in front of him, then take a look in attack.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Bionicle Tuma Building Instructions
Fanny wooden leg
of Kurt Bartsch
blurb
"The destruction of the city was a done deal." This movement opens the novel Fanny wooden leg, the novel about a girl that is really Fanny Sage, and between March 1945 and winter of 1947 takes place in Berlin. Fanny's side in her friend Charlotte - a little older than she - a faithful soul, the only person she has left. And four boys from the neighborhood playmates of old, to become child soldiers, the fierce determination to defend what honor and loyalty commanded them: the country, the girls, the illusion.
This is one of the books, which one puts away again when you have finished reading it. Kurt Bartsch tells a moving story without being maudlin. The spelling changes from clear, concise descriptions of poetic images, rapidly compressed to slowness. A really great novel, written moving and fantastic. Highly recommended. 
of Kurt Bartsch
blurb
"The destruction of the city was a done deal." This movement opens the novel Fanny wooden leg, the novel about a girl that is really Fanny Sage, and between March 1945 and winter of 1947 takes place in Berlin. Fanny's side in her friend Charlotte - a little older than she - a faithful soul, the only person she has left. And four boys from the neighborhood playmates of old, to become child soldiers, the fierce determination to defend what honor and loyalty commanded them: the country, the girls, the illusion.
This is one of the books, which one puts away again when you have finished reading it. Kurt Bartsch tells a moving story without being maudlin. The spelling changes from clear, concise descriptions of poetic images, rapidly compressed to slowness. A really great novel, written moving and fantastic. Highly recommended.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Coconut Milk Equivalent To Coconut Oil
link
The fire eisgesäumte lips.
Earth harr end promise.
The skinny sipping water. The air is a
incurable revenge.
Along the way drunken yesterday.
In his hand an empty hour.
The red moon, and his sisters
flog a scary moment.
a flashback and a dull whisper. The darkness
inflates their nostrils.
She sucks me piercingly. You remain silent and
: The Winter's child.
exempt wind in your hair and am good
Bornschein.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
The fire eisgesäumte lips.
Earth harr end promise.
The skinny sipping water. The air is a
incurable revenge.
Along the way drunken yesterday.
In his hand an empty hour.
The red moon, and his sisters
flog a scary moment.
a flashback and a dull whisper. The darkness
inflates their nostrils.
She sucks me piercingly. You remain silent and
: The Winter's child.
exempt wind in your hair and am good
Bornschein.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Name My Cake Buisness
resolution Release
fences, hunters break my view
before the forest, as ever, and it
impale their heads.
I stuck. My little toe
begins to itch. I gets cold.
A game, a first wet keys
the old braids, fresh straw,
kept in the cigar box.
It smells still to Cuba,
for rebellion, crisis and fun.
My laughter dissolves in the rigidity.
I look soluble. The moon is pale.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
fences, hunters break my view
before the forest, as ever, and it
impale their heads.
I stuck. My little toe
begins to itch. I gets cold.
A game, a first wet keys
the old braids, fresh straw,
kept in the cigar box.
It smells still to Cuba,
for rebellion, crisis and fun.
My laughter dissolves in the rigidity.
I look soluble. The moon is pale.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Saturday, July 25, 2009
How To Make A Gumpaste Shoe
Unfiltered
The stars look tired, lifeless
light rays
replaced it and this wrong, pale
lantern glow silent a house.
closed the shutters, locked the door
such protection.
Behind the white plastic cleaning
did you sleep in the lied.
Grim smoke from my cigarette,
burns itself into the pupil.
A tobacco remaining on my lip.
A young moon falls from the cliff,
washes clean in ground fog.
I step from the dump, go home.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
The stars look tired, lifeless
light rays
replaced it and this wrong, pale
lantern glow silent a house.
closed the shutters, locked the door
such protection.
Behind the white plastic cleaning
did you sleep in the lied.
Grim smoke from my cigarette,
burns itself into the pupil.
A tobacco remaining on my lip.
A young moon falls from the cliff,
washes clean in ground fog.
I step from the dump, go home.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Do Jeep Liberty Have Shocks And Struts
Dream Catcher - Five
The cat shoots hissing past him and raced down the stairs. Henry closes the door and breathes the leaden gloom, which usually is spreading through abandoned homes, and on his shoulders supported, like an old friend.
He walks into the bedroom and takes the small picture in itself. He stroked her auburn-colored hair, closes the Eyes and pushes the picture to his nose. Summer. Bare feet that hardly touch the grass. Bright red sandals in hand. July laughter. "You see? You see, I made it!" Your arms around his neck and Brombeerlippen.
He opens the cupboard, leaving the hands waving over their clothes. They bag up. Fill with rosy flesh. With warm breath. With blood. Heartbeat.
Jessica in the pale red dress that goes straight up to her knees. He likes it when she wears dresses. Like how rubbing the hem on the skin of her thighs, she wanders about, retires and again unaffected.
She holds out the letter and her eyes shine with the sun to the Bet.
"I've done it! You have accepted me. I can not believe it. "
you waiting for, he reads the letter, and he buries his hands deeper into the pockets of his only pair of jeans.
"Hey Papa Bear, do not look so grim. I'm not from the world and I come back every weekend in our den. You make us a fire, and we we are. Just like always. "
would come. First, every weekend, then every second and at some point ... Henry's lips curl, stiffen and eventually he manages to them to force a smile. "Yes, we always we will be."
He takes the letter in his hand and directed a glance at the blurred letters.
"That's great, Jess. I'm looking for you. "
" The only way you say. "
" However, I am really looking forward. "Bites
The sun was in his neck and he rubs at his most interesting skin. And he sweats. He sweats and he hates the summer. Not in principle. But that he hates to from second, with full conviction and success.
his face buried in an airy fabric. He takes the dress from the closet and grabs it with a few personal belongings in a small travel bag. He makes the bed and put out the light.
"Hey, Kiki, what have you done." He goes into a crouch and take the girl the knife from his hand. Blood? At her clothes, hands, the stainless steel. She sits at the counter of the small pubs. Leaning back against the wood paneling, legs stretched out.
The small body weighs almost nothing, as he carries it upstairs to the bathroom. He turns on the water, touches her gently away from the stained clothes and let them sink into the tub.
She puts on her legs, wrapped around her shins, and laid her head on her knees. Isolated strands of hair floating on the water surface and form a surreal Gischtkrone around the cliffs of her body.
you humming. She has a beautiful voice. A little smoky. Like a summer morning in the mountains. And you know when the fog has cleared the first, waiting for a clear day. Henry
the sponge dipped in hot water and wets her shoulders, she let the water run down the back.
He carefully moves his finger over her shoulder blades, the two eight-inch-long scars, which run parallel to each. They are old and faded. Except for a few harmless cuts on her arms, no fresh wounds can be found.
"What happened?" He asks. Quiet only, he does not want to scare you.
"Did you know that blood adapts his environment? At night it is black and silky, hiding in the shadows, like a chameleon and it flows very slowly. During the day, but since it is bright and fast, like a straightened stream, as if to say it was: Look, I'm from "
you start again, the little tune to hum.. And Henry looks at her scars. Equally they are almost like identical twins. And they are adapting to their bodies as if they have always been with each other. As if the one without the other is unthinkable.
"Where is your uncle?"
"Who?"
"Herb, your uncle."
"He is sleeping. Today was pretty drunk early. "
Henry washes her hair. They are stringy and sticky.
"Why do you live with your uncle? What about your parents? "
" I do not need. "She looks at her toes. The nails are too long.
"But you've got any. Everyone has parents. "
" I'm Elena. "
" But it did not bore you. "
" Yes, she did. "Her neck muscles tense and she shrugs her shoulders. Shakes his hands off. "You do not understand."
She gets out of the tub and he wound up in a huge towel. Dries her hair and combs it. It can be emotionless endure. Then he brought her to bed. She presses her face against his forearm, yawns and pulls the blanket up to her chin high, even over his hand, which it is based on the edge of the bed, and fell asleep.
Henry walks down the creaking steps and followed the dark tracks into the kitchen. The floor tiles are bloody and the cabinets are dark red splashes. Nothing else.
He takes his jacket.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
The cat shoots hissing past him and raced down the stairs. Henry closes the door and breathes the leaden gloom, which usually is spreading through abandoned homes, and on his shoulders supported, like an old friend.
He walks into the bedroom and takes the small picture in itself. He stroked her auburn-colored hair, closes the Eyes and pushes the picture to his nose. Summer. Bare feet that hardly touch the grass. Bright red sandals in hand. July laughter. "You see? You see, I made it!" Your arms around his neck and Brombeerlippen.
He opens the cupboard, leaving the hands waving over their clothes. They bag up. Fill with rosy flesh. With warm breath. With blood. Heartbeat.
Jessica in the pale red dress that goes straight up to her knees. He likes it when she wears dresses. Like how rubbing the hem on the skin of her thighs, she wanders about, retires and again unaffected.
She holds out the letter and her eyes shine with the sun to the Bet.
"I've done it! You have accepted me. I can not believe it. "
you waiting for, he reads the letter, and he buries his hands deeper into the pockets of his only pair of jeans.
"Hey Papa Bear, do not look so grim. I'm not from the world and I come back every weekend in our den. You make us a fire, and we we are. Just like always. "
would come. First, every weekend, then every second and at some point ... Henry's lips curl, stiffen and eventually he manages to them to force a smile. "Yes, we always we will be."
He takes the letter in his hand and directed a glance at the blurred letters.
"That's great, Jess. I'm looking for you. "
" The only way you say. "
" However, I am really looking forward. "Bites
The sun was in his neck and he rubs at his most interesting skin. And he sweats. He sweats and he hates the summer. Not in principle. But that he hates to from second, with full conviction and success.
his face buried in an airy fabric. He takes the dress from the closet and grabs it with a few personal belongings in a small travel bag. He makes the bed and put out the light.
"Hey, Kiki, what have you done." He goes into a crouch and take the girl the knife from his hand. Blood? At her clothes, hands, the stainless steel. She sits at the counter of the small pubs. Leaning back against the wood paneling, legs stretched out.
The small body weighs almost nothing, as he carries it upstairs to the bathroom. He turns on the water, touches her gently away from the stained clothes and let them sink into the tub.
She puts on her legs, wrapped around her shins, and laid her head on her knees. Isolated strands of hair floating on the water surface and form a surreal Gischtkrone around the cliffs of her body.
you humming. She has a beautiful voice. A little smoky. Like a summer morning in the mountains. And you know when the fog has cleared the first, waiting for a clear day. Henry
the sponge dipped in hot water and wets her shoulders, she let the water run down the back.
He carefully moves his finger over her shoulder blades, the two eight-inch-long scars, which run parallel to each. They are old and faded. Except for a few harmless cuts on her arms, no fresh wounds can be found.
"What happened?" He asks. Quiet only, he does not want to scare you.
"Did you know that blood adapts his environment? At night it is black and silky, hiding in the shadows, like a chameleon and it flows very slowly. During the day, but since it is bright and fast, like a straightened stream, as if to say it was: Look, I'm from "
you start again, the little tune to hum.. And Henry looks at her scars. Equally they are almost like identical twins. And they are adapting to their bodies as if they have always been with each other. As if the one without the other is unthinkable.
"Where is your uncle?"
"Who?"
"Herb, your uncle."
"He is sleeping. Today was pretty drunk early. "
Henry washes her hair. They are stringy and sticky.
"Why do you live with your uncle? What about your parents? "
" I do not need. "She looks at her toes. The nails are too long.
"But you've got any. Everyone has parents. "
" I'm Elena. "
" But it did not bore you. "
" Yes, she did. "Her neck muscles tense and she shrugs her shoulders. Shakes his hands off. "You do not understand."
She gets out of the tub and he wound up in a huge towel. Dries her hair and combs it. It can be emotionless endure. Then he brought her to bed. She presses her face against his forearm, yawns and pulls the blanket up to her chin high, even over his hand, which it is based on the edge of the bed, and fell asleep.
Henry walks down the creaking steps and followed the dark tracks into the kitchen. The floor tiles are bloody and the cabinets are dark red splashes. Nothing else.
He takes his jacket.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Monday, July 20, 2009
Congratulatory Message Pregnancy
Dreamcatcher - Four
It started to snow and puffy flakes blow round their bodies. Kiki laughs and jumps more than that it is going. Henry has trouble keeping step.
The happiness of the girl and even the snow seem bizarre and out of place amid the decaying buildings. Hardly a facade has a noticeable color. Everything is gray in gray, swarmed by pure white feathers and a dancing orange swab. Henry smiles.
Kiki turns with outstretched arms until it plops out of breath at his feet in the fresh snow.
"Why are you wearing that?" She indicated with her chin on his gloves.
"It's cold."
"Yes." Kiki nods and keeps her face in the tickling feather. She closes her eyes. "Sometimes I could so cold, I warm myself in icicles. Then I go outside and walk through the streets. And I always feel that I'm looking for something. But I do not know what it is. "
" Then we would both look for something, " Henry says, and picks up the basket, which is upset by her side in a snowdrift.
Kiki knocks off his clothes and go for a while in silence, side by side. Henry wants to ask just how far it was when his eyes fall on a small house, and he knows that they have arrived.
The house has, in the midst of the dreary blocks, like a foreign body. As a holdover from another era. The facade is painted in warm yellow and the red clay tiles pitched roof cover, which remain due to an apparently poor insulation not covered with snow. Hang curtains on the windows and the garden are different shoes. At least fifteen pairs. neatly sorted.
Kiki follows Henry's an astonished look and laughs. "Elena says, if you invite dreams, you have to offer them a warm, dry place to rest."
She shrugs his shoulders and a knowing smile plays around her lips. She says the truth, or at least believes that it does.
"Elena says, people are too ignorant to dream, why so many homeless dreams swirl around the world who seek only a place where they can establish themselves. And she offers them. Elena has enough to fill a football stadium dreams, she says, and that only because nobody else wants them. "
" Dreams are air bubbles, I say to you. If they wants to keep it burst. What remains are only damp stains on the sheets. "
" Then you've just been pressed too much, "she replied stubborn and crosses his arms over his chest.
Henry lights a Marlboro and swallows the smoke with a bitter tear. Maybe he has this He may have crushed them. He stares at one of the pairs of shoes, which stands right in front of his feet. Dark brown hiking boots, similar to those he carries himself.
"I'm sorry," says Kiki, is a step towards him and remains so close in front of him, that they must inhale the cigarette smoke. She raises her hand as if to take his and Henry shrugs involuntarily.
He flicks the butt over the low picket fence and buried in snow. The sparse plume is carried away by an angry wind.
"I will find them."
you enter the house without knocking. Kiki behaves as if it is even here at home. She walks purposefully into the kitchen and turn off in their little white basket on the kitchen table.
The work surface is dirty and find the sink piled dishes. Stuck on the floor juice or coffee residues. Henry soles make smacking noises when walking. Over the window niches, mildew, and depends on the discs formed a yellowish Veil. Kiki seems not to notice anything, or get used to it.
"Sit down." She says as she throws her jacket and gloves on the bench. "I'm going to look for Elena."
The house can have maximum of four rooms in size. "Wide, it can not be yes." Replies Henry, shrugging his shoulders.
"It should not be deceived by the superficial, Elena always says." Kiki winks conspiratorially and Henry can just stand.
He sits down on a white plastic chairs. He is infinitely tired. It is warm in the room. The air smells stale and can breathe only reluctantly. Somewhere hums a boiler. The tap is dripping sporadically. Slow dissolves a drop of water from the spout, still stuck firmly a split second, is elongated, frees himself and rises, shimmering rotating around its own axis, rusted into the faucet. Klack. Henry rubbed over the face and squints.
The shutters maltreat the wall. A miracle that the weathered wood can withstand the pulling and hitting. It has stopped snowing. But the wind blows the loose powder snow in front of him, scares and chases after him until he clings stoically in niches and joints. Then there is silence. From a water drop on the other the storm. The wood from the Windows groan with gratitude. The sun breaks through the puffy clouds and snow are the sterile white a touch of liveliness. Henry longs to snuggle up in one of the freshly shaken snow beds and pull the covers over his head.
White can have so many nuances. Walls, old white-plastered, interrupted in places by dark scratches and cracked at the corners. Bedding that sad white, the cotton gets, if stored for years in closets. The desolate white in this furrowed face. Skin, reveals more than it concealed, and only waiting to finally break allowed.
"Why did it brought here? "
Elena digs on the night table drawer, until he pulled out a syringe and a packaged needle.
" He needs help. "
"And that is reason enough?"
"For me it is this"
The old woman beheads a small glass tube, and draws on the clear liquid. Kiki waiting in silence while she pushes the air from the syringe until a drop of shows and hang swaying from the sharp needle remains.
She nods. "Good. Then shall be sufficient to me. "With practiced fingers she pinches her stomach together to an almost transparent role and sets the injection.
" Thanks, "said the girl and kisses Elena directly on the steep folds between her eyebrows.
Henry looks at the kitchen clock. The single pointer rests on the seventh. He has been dozing, until he startles a rhythmic deep rumble. It sounds as if approaching a marching band, whose drummer musicians the clock for a funeral march pretending. Surprise - step. Surprise - step. The sound, at first directly under his feet, now comes up the stairs and near the kitchen.
A drop of water that had been on his way to the tap remains hanging in the air, shaking and falling, in slow motion, back into the drain.
The woman must be old in the 70 years be. You may also 100 Hard to say. Your body is emaciated, old-fashioned long dress hangs loosely on their limbs. She limps and is based on a crutch. It can be awkward on a low plastic chairs, pulls out a gold snuff-box and a wooden flute from the large apron pocket of her dress and begins to stuff meticulously.
a match and keep the small flame lit his pipe. After some trains covers a sweet flavor to the musty smell. A gloomy veil lies over the iris of her eyes and explains their nervous movements.
Kiki behind Elena. Your hands resting at home on their bony Shoulders.
"So you are looking for someone?" Asks the old woman with a voice that seems to be even older than her body. Brittle and rusty.
Henry nods. He wants to see if she has lost her eyesight completely or partially lost.
"You think you're a very clever lad, eh?" Instant your right arm, like a cobra, forward and bite their nails in his hand, which is loosely on the table. Her dusky pupils fix his gaze and she sees him not in the eyes, but behind it. After a few seconds, she gives him free. She leans back a groan, pulls her scarf tighter around his shoulders broad Kiki's hand and pats.
"I can not help him." Snorted contemptuously
Henry and leaves on the lid of his lighters and click.
"Elena, please." Kiki gently kneads the old meat on the bones brittle. Elena relaxed visibly and some puffs smoke rings in the wait-and silence.
"Many walkers are met, but few can tell of him." The old woman beats her crutch in her right leg. Plastic on plastic. A soulless noise. A slight tingling sensation creeps over Henry's neck, and he flexes his muscles. "You can not find it. He finds you when it's time. " She knocks her cold pipe on the table. "If you are looking for answers - if you're really looking for - then'll start to look within yourself."
© Simone wedge 2009 Read
next -> Dream Catcher - Five 
It started to snow and puffy flakes blow round their bodies. Kiki laughs and jumps more than that it is going. Henry has trouble keeping step.
The happiness of the girl and even the snow seem bizarre and out of place amid the decaying buildings. Hardly a facade has a noticeable color. Everything is gray in gray, swarmed by pure white feathers and a dancing orange swab. Henry smiles.
Kiki turns with outstretched arms until it plops out of breath at his feet in the fresh snow.
"Why are you wearing that?" She indicated with her chin on his gloves.
"It's cold."
"Yes." Kiki nods and keeps her face in the tickling feather. She closes her eyes. "Sometimes I could so cold, I warm myself in icicles. Then I go outside and walk through the streets. And I always feel that I'm looking for something. But I do not know what it is. "
" Then we would both look for something, " Henry says, and picks up the basket, which is upset by her side in a snowdrift.
Kiki knocks off his clothes and go for a while in silence, side by side. Henry wants to ask just how far it was when his eyes fall on a small house, and he knows that they have arrived.
The house has, in the midst of the dreary blocks, like a foreign body. As a holdover from another era. The facade is painted in warm yellow and the red clay tiles pitched roof cover, which remain due to an apparently poor insulation not covered with snow. Hang curtains on the windows and the garden are different shoes. At least fifteen pairs. neatly sorted.
Kiki follows Henry's an astonished look and laughs. "Elena says, if you invite dreams, you have to offer them a warm, dry place to rest."
She shrugs his shoulders and a knowing smile plays around her lips. She says the truth, or at least believes that it does.
"Elena says, people are too ignorant to dream, why so many homeless dreams swirl around the world who seek only a place where they can establish themselves. And she offers them. Elena has enough to fill a football stadium dreams, she says, and that only because nobody else wants them. "
" Dreams are air bubbles, I say to you. If they wants to keep it burst. What remains are only damp stains on the sheets. "
" Then you've just been pressed too much, "she replied stubborn and crosses his arms over his chest.
Henry lights a Marlboro and swallows the smoke with a bitter tear. Maybe he has this He may have crushed them. He stares at one of the pairs of shoes, which stands right in front of his feet. Dark brown hiking boots, similar to those he carries himself.
"I'm sorry," says Kiki, is a step towards him and remains so close in front of him, that they must inhale the cigarette smoke. She raises her hand as if to take his and Henry shrugs involuntarily.
He flicks the butt over the low picket fence and buried in snow. The sparse plume is carried away by an angry wind.
"I will find them."
you enter the house without knocking. Kiki behaves as if it is even here at home. She walks purposefully into the kitchen and turn off in their little white basket on the kitchen table.
The work surface is dirty and find the sink piled dishes. Stuck on the floor juice or coffee residues. Henry soles make smacking noises when walking. Over the window niches, mildew, and depends on the discs formed a yellowish Veil. Kiki seems not to notice anything, or get used to it.
"Sit down." She says as she throws her jacket and gloves on the bench. "I'm going to look for Elena."
The house can have maximum of four rooms in size. "Wide, it can not be yes." Replies Henry, shrugging his shoulders.
"It should not be deceived by the superficial, Elena always says." Kiki winks conspiratorially and Henry can just stand.
He sits down on a white plastic chairs. He is infinitely tired. It is warm in the room. The air smells stale and can breathe only reluctantly. Somewhere hums a boiler. The tap is dripping sporadically. Slow dissolves a drop of water from the spout, still stuck firmly a split second, is elongated, frees himself and rises, shimmering rotating around its own axis, rusted into the faucet. Klack. Henry rubbed over the face and squints.
The shutters maltreat the wall. A miracle that the weathered wood can withstand the pulling and hitting. It has stopped snowing. But the wind blows the loose powder snow in front of him, scares and chases after him until he clings stoically in niches and joints. Then there is silence. From a water drop on the other the storm. The wood from the Windows groan with gratitude. The sun breaks through the puffy clouds and snow are the sterile white a touch of liveliness. Henry longs to snuggle up in one of the freshly shaken snow beds and pull the covers over his head.
White can have so many nuances. Walls, old white-plastered, interrupted in places by dark scratches and cracked at the corners. Bedding that sad white, the cotton gets, if stored for years in closets. The desolate white in this furrowed face. Skin, reveals more than it concealed, and only waiting to finally break allowed.
"Why did it brought here? "
Elena digs on the night table drawer, until he pulled out a syringe and a packaged needle.
" He needs help. "
"And that is reason enough?"
"For me it is this"
The old woman beheads a small glass tube, and draws on the clear liquid. Kiki waiting in silence while she pushes the air from the syringe until a drop of shows and hang swaying from the sharp needle remains.
She nods. "Good. Then shall be sufficient to me. "With practiced fingers she pinches her stomach together to an almost transparent role and sets the injection.
" Thanks, "said the girl and kisses Elena directly on the steep folds between her eyebrows.
Henry looks at the kitchen clock. The single pointer rests on the seventh. He has been dozing, until he startles a rhythmic deep rumble. It sounds as if approaching a marching band, whose drummer musicians the clock for a funeral march pretending. Surprise - step. Surprise - step. The sound, at first directly under his feet, now comes up the stairs and near the kitchen.
A drop of water that had been on his way to the tap remains hanging in the air, shaking and falling, in slow motion, back into the drain.
The woman must be old in the 70 years be. You may also 100 Hard to say. Your body is emaciated, old-fashioned long dress hangs loosely on their limbs. She limps and is based on a crutch. It can be awkward on a low plastic chairs, pulls out a gold snuff-box and a wooden flute from the large apron pocket of her dress and begins to stuff meticulously.
a match and keep the small flame lit his pipe. After some trains covers a sweet flavor to the musty smell. A gloomy veil lies over the iris of her eyes and explains their nervous movements.
Kiki behind Elena. Your hands resting at home on their bony Shoulders.
"So you are looking for someone?" Asks the old woman with a voice that seems to be even older than her body. Brittle and rusty.
Henry nods. He wants to see if she has lost her eyesight completely or partially lost.
"You think you're a very clever lad, eh?" Instant your right arm, like a cobra, forward and bite their nails in his hand, which is loosely on the table. Her dusky pupils fix his gaze and she sees him not in the eyes, but behind it. After a few seconds, she gives him free. She leans back a groan, pulls her scarf tighter around his shoulders broad Kiki's hand and pats.
"I can not help him." Snorted contemptuously
Henry and leaves on the lid of his lighters and click.
"Elena, please." Kiki gently kneads the old meat on the bones brittle. Elena relaxed visibly and some puffs smoke rings in the wait-and silence.
"Many walkers are met, but few can tell of him." The old woman beats her crutch in her right leg. Plastic on plastic. A soulless noise. A slight tingling sensation creeps over Henry's neck, and he flexes his muscles. "You can not find it. He finds you when it's time. " She knocks her cold pipe on the table. "If you are looking for answers - if you're really looking for - then'll start to look within yourself."
© Simone wedge 2009 Read
next -> Dream Catcher - Five
Sunday, July 19, 2009
How To Make A Bugatti Veyron Cake
Dream Catcher - Three Roman
Henry watched the city . It undulates and flows. The people in the streets seem to be caught in their wake drive, defenseless on the waves that play with them as children with shell pieces.
Was that always been the case, has sharpened his eyes, or detects the lack of will of the masses only because he stands apart. Off of what we call normal. For that it has become clear, he is no longer the man he is still yesterday. He is different, how different, he must find out more.
His steps led him to peripheral areas, in which he has hitherto never been before. Funny how helpless you move into unfamiliar territory. It smells musty, rotten to refuse and wishes.
The road is narrow and touches his shoulder, the red brick wall of a derelict factory building, which limits the side street. It exudes vitality moist, like a brackish pond on the edge of an ancient peat bog. And Henry feels dull from the observed some broken windows. He stops and listens, now everything seems to be tight with him and listen to him. He turns his head and stares down the alley, through which he came, and the sparse shrubs and rock plants, slept in the winter gloom seem to gaze with him.
is Around the next corner and Henry in front of the weathered facade of a two-story house in whose cellar is obviously a pub. , Herbs' stands on a dented tin plate, the creak of a rusty iron bar above the entrance and below laconically: Food - Beverages - sleeping. Eight levels of concrete stairs that lead down to a scarred wooden door at the knob a hand-written, open 'sign hanging. Without thinking, Henry enters the dimly lit dining room.
"Beer?"
It takes a few seconds, until his eyes have become accustomed to the dim light and he registered the man who fixes it on the counter of time. His hair is greasy and long. Receding hairline and wrinkles in the corners.
Henry sits on a bar stool and throws a twenty on the wet counter. The host is a stale beer before him.
The store is almost empty. Only two young guys with leather jackets and biker boots to play pool on a threadbare pool table and watch him - the stranger - from the corner of his eye.
Henry tipped his beer on Ex and proposes the glass rattling on the counter, so he has the full attention of those present. "I 'm looking for a man who describes himself as a wanderer. "
" Never heard of. "If the short answer, but Henry noticed the driving term views to the front door and digs deeper. "About 1.80 m tall, black hair, light skin, a prominent pointed nose, strikingly white teeth. And he has a small brown dog with him, which he called Chester. I have to find it again. "
A rumble lets him drive around. One of the boys picks up his cue and began meticulously the tip of the stick einzukreiden.
When Henry turns back, stands in the doorway between the bar and the cloakroom girl. Pink pajamas. Long blonde hair. Tired eyes. Dirty Puddles in the middle sand-colored skin.
The girl goes to the bar around until it is very close to him. A ragged teddy bear in her arms, it goes past the fingertips of his right hand, which is loosely on his thigh. Very carefully, it goes to the seams in the brown leather.
"Hey Kiki, get out! Los disappear in your room. "The landlord clenches his fist and pointed his thumb at the open door from which the girl has come.
. I'm sorry, "it says to Henry, then touched the button with which the glove is buttoned at the wrists, and barely audible." Do not be sad, "turns and disappears.
Henry staring at the closed door and listens, "I want to rent a room" to say. He looks to the host "for a few days, maybe longer."
His hands slide through her hair. But every time he wants to touch it, it seems farther away from him. Panic rising in his throat and he swallows, in order not to have come to the surface.
shell noise and lulling sounds hug him and wear him down deeper and deeper. He opens his eyes and turns, winds in resistant tiles. Digs his hands into the inconceivable. Calls for it, again and again. Entangled in fibrous grasses, the wrap around his wrists until he is unable to move are on the ground.
damped and quiet her voice penetrates through to him. "If you love me, you'll find me."
Henry gasps. His T-shirt clings to his upper body and it takes a few seconds before it registers where it is located.
It is pitch dark in the guest room, not even a small glimmer of lantern light falls into it from the street through the open window. He turns on the bedside lamp and a pressed themselves audible breath from his lungs.
The girl from the pub sits on the edge of the bed, staring at him. No, actually, they only see his way, because their eyes are expressionless and her pupils dilated unnatural.
What is her name been? "Kiki?" He gently touched her arm. Your muscles are tense. On her neck stand out the tendons. She opens her mouth. Cumulus clouds break away from her lips, and since Henry first noticed that it's freezing cold in the room.
The girl just sits there. A single tear runs down her cheek, leaving a brilliant strip. Henry breathes heavily. Unable to move, he looks fascinated by the woman's face on the child's body. Eyes are so deep blue as the sky over the Atlantic, just before sunset, which seem to be as old at the time.
He raises his arm, Slowly, and with his finger tip moves to the damp track on her cheek, pulls them back, when he noticed that she began to shiver.
"She's scared." She whispers, and new clouds mountains breathed into the room. Narrow your body begins to tremble and her eyes return to reality. With angstgeweiteten eyes she falls forward and sobbed in Henry's neck flexion.
Reluctantly, he concludes his arms around her waist and holds it for minutes. The palms turned outward. Then he lifts her up and just decided with her to her room, down the hall.
He covers her and stroking her on the forehead, once it begins tremble and he clenches his fists to his hands, staring at his frosty ankle. When will finally disappear cold.
Henry pushes his plate aside. He is queasy in the stomach and his eyes are in a dark cave.
"You must eat!" Kiki shows reproachfully at his breakfast, he has hardly touched, and put his hands into the narrow hips. She wears a white apron over faded jeans and a blue sweater.
Henry leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. "And you, you do not have to go to school?" He blows the smoke through the nose.
"Not during the holidays." She sits in front of the chair. "If you do not stop to smoke, die du"
"Yes, sure." A ray of sunlight falls through the window in Henry's face and he screws up his eyes in order to identify the girl. entangled "There are already people died because they have not stopped talking." Kiki
his arms over his chest and sees him defiantly in the face.
"Have you done the breakfast?" Asks Henry and throws the cigarette into his coffee cup, even though an ashtray right next to it.
"Yes. Herb is still asleep and have to do it. "
" Herb is your father? "
"But you are quite curious." Kiki suggests the legs passes, her apron, and smooth down his face while a moment out of sight. "You've yesterday asked for the hikers," she takes a break and watch his reaction. Henry blinked once, but no sign of warping. "What do you want from him?"
"I am looking for answers. And you ask too many questions for a small child. "
screeches her back her chair, gets up from her place pretentious and throws with a trained head movement, her blond hair over her shoulders. With her head held high she cleans up his dishes.
"Herb is my uncle. And I am 12 next month, "she remarked, almost in passing, before it disappears with graceful steps in the kitchen.
Henry lit another cigarette and looks out the window. It has become darker, the sky is covered with snow clouds.
enters from the kitchen utensils clatter and radio music. Henry wanted to ask the girls after last night, but they seemed not to remember. Cupboard doors slam and a short time later Kiki appears, dressed in hat, gloves and winter jacket in the house. It works in the thick stuff still fragile and the fresh eyes are in striking contrast to its desert skin.
"I know who you help may. "She puts on her gloves, looking at Henry's hands, which he loosely based on the table and put the back in the old brown leather.
"And who is this?"
"Elena. And now come at last, I'm already late. "Kiki takes a basket from the counter and goes outside.
They probably will make only important, but if not? He took his coat and follows her.
© Simone wedge
2009 Read more -> Dreamcatcher - Four 
Henry watched the city . It undulates and flows. The people in the streets seem to be caught in their wake drive, defenseless on the waves that play with them as children with shell pieces.
Was that always been the case, has sharpened his eyes, or detects the lack of will of the masses only because he stands apart. Off of what we call normal. For that it has become clear, he is no longer the man he is still yesterday. He is different, how different, he must find out more.
His steps led him to peripheral areas, in which he has hitherto never been before. Funny how helpless you move into unfamiliar territory. It smells musty, rotten to refuse and wishes.
The road is narrow and touches his shoulder, the red brick wall of a derelict factory building, which limits the side street. It exudes vitality moist, like a brackish pond on the edge of an ancient peat bog. And Henry feels dull from the observed some broken windows. He stops and listens, now everything seems to be tight with him and listen to him. He turns his head and stares down the alley, through which he came, and the sparse shrubs and rock plants, slept in the winter gloom seem to gaze with him.
is Around the next corner and Henry in front of the weathered facade of a two-story house in whose cellar is obviously a pub. , Herbs' stands on a dented tin plate, the creak of a rusty iron bar above the entrance and below laconically: Food - Beverages - sleeping. Eight levels of concrete stairs that lead down to a scarred wooden door at the knob a hand-written, open 'sign hanging. Without thinking, Henry enters the dimly lit dining room.
"Beer?"
It takes a few seconds, until his eyes have become accustomed to the dim light and he registered the man who fixes it on the counter of time. His hair is greasy and long. Receding hairline and wrinkles in the corners.
Henry sits on a bar stool and throws a twenty on the wet counter. The host is a stale beer before him.
The store is almost empty. Only two young guys with leather jackets and biker boots to play pool on a threadbare pool table and watch him - the stranger - from the corner of his eye.
Henry tipped his beer on Ex and proposes the glass rattling on the counter, so he has the full attention of those present. "I 'm looking for a man who describes himself as a wanderer. "
" Never heard of. "If the short answer, but Henry noticed the driving term views to the front door and digs deeper. "About 1.80 m tall, black hair, light skin, a prominent pointed nose, strikingly white teeth. And he has a small brown dog with him, which he called Chester. I have to find it again. "
A rumble lets him drive around. One of the boys picks up his cue and began meticulously the tip of the stick einzukreiden.
When Henry turns back, stands in the doorway between the bar and the cloakroom girl. Pink pajamas. Long blonde hair. Tired eyes. Dirty Puddles in the middle sand-colored skin.
The girl goes to the bar around until it is very close to him. A ragged teddy bear in her arms, it goes past the fingertips of his right hand, which is loosely on his thigh. Very carefully, it goes to the seams in the brown leather.
"Hey Kiki, get out! Los disappear in your room. "The landlord clenches his fist and pointed his thumb at the open door from which the girl has come.
. I'm sorry, "it says to Henry, then touched the button with which the glove is buttoned at the wrists, and barely audible." Do not be sad, "turns and disappears.
Henry staring at the closed door and listens, "I want to rent a room" to say. He looks to the host "for a few days, maybe longer."
His hands slide through her hair. But every time he wants to touch it, it seems farther away from him. Panic rising in his throat and he swallows, in order not to have come to the surface.
shell noise and lulling sounds hug him and wear him down deeper and deeper. He opens his eyes and turns, winds in resistant tiles. Digs his hands into the inconceivable. Calls for it, again and again. Entangled in fibrous grasses, the wrap around his wrists until he is unable to move are on the ground.
damped and quiet her voice penetrates through to him. "If you love me, you'll find me."
Henry gasps. His T-shirt clings to his upper body and it takes a few seconds before it registers where it is located.
It is pitch dark in the guest room, not even a small glimmer of lantern light falls into it from the street through the open window. He turns on the bedside lamp and a pressed themselves audible breath from his lungs.
The girl from the pub sits on the edge of the bed, staring at him. No, actually, they only see his way, because their eyes are expressionless and her pupils dilated unnatural.
What is her name been? "Kiki?" He gently touched her arm. Your muscles are tense. On her neck stand out the tendons. She opens her mouth. Cumulus clouds break away from her lips, and since Henry first noticed that it's freezing cold in the room.
The girl just sits there. A single tear runs down her cheek, leaving a brilliant strip. Henry breathes heavily. Unable to move, he looks fascinated by the woman's face on the child's body. Eyes are so deep blue as the sky over the Atlantic, just before sunset, which seem to be as old at the time.
He raises his arm, Slowly, and with his finger tip moves to the damp track on her cheek, pulls them back, when he noticed that she began to shiver.
"She's scared." She whispers, and new clouds mountains breathed into the room. Narrow your body begins to tremble and her eyes return to reality. With angstgeweiteten eyes she falls forward and sobbed in Henry's neck flexion.
Reluctantly, he concludes his arms around her waist and holds it for minutes. The palms turned outward. Then he lifts her up and just decided with her to her room, down the hall.
He covers her and stroking her on the forehead, once it begins tremble and he clenches his fists to his hands, staring at his frosty ankle. When will finally disappear cold.
Henry pushes his plate aside. He is queasy in the stomach and his eyes are in a dark cave.
"You must eat!" Kiki shows reproachfully at his breakfast, he has hardly touched, and put his hands into the narrow hips. She wears a white apron over faded jeans and a blue sweater.
Henry leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. "And you, you do not have to go to school?" He blows the smoke through the nose.
"Not during the holidays." She sits in front of the chair. "If you do not stop to smoke, die du"
"Yes, sure." A ray of sunlight falls through the window in Henry's face and he screws up his eyes in order to identify the girl. entangled "There are already people died because they have not stopped talking." Kiki
his arms over his chest and sees him defiantly in the face.
"Have you done the breakfast?" Asks Henry and throws the cigarette into his coffee cup, even though an ashtray right next to it.
"Yes. Herb is still asleep and have to do it. "
" Herb is your father? "
"But you are quite curious." Kiki suggests the legs passes, her apron, and smooth down his face while a moment out of sight. "You've yesterday asked for the hikers," she takes a break and watch his reaction. Henry blinked once, but no sign of warping. "What do you want from him?"
"I am looking for answers. And you ask too many questions for a small child. "
screeches her back her chair, gets up from her place pretentious and throws with a trained head movement, her blond hair over her shoulders. With her head held high she cleans up his dishes.
"Herb is my uncle. And I am 12 next month, "she remarked, almost in passing, before it disappears with graceful steps in the kitchen.
Henry lit another cigarette and looks out the window. It has become darker, the sky is covered with snow clouds.
enters from the kitchen utensils clatter and radio music. Henry wanted to ask the girls after last night, but they seemed not to remember. Cupboard doors slam and a short time later Kiki appears, dressed in hat, gloves and winter jacket in the house. It works in the thick stuff still fragile and the fresh eyes are in striking contrast to its desert skin.
"I know who you help may. "She puts on her gloves, looking at Henry's hands, which he loosely based on the table and put the back in the old brown leather.
"And who is this?"
"Elena. And now come at last, I'm already late. "Kiki takes a basket from the counter and goes outside.
They probably will make only important, but if not? He took his coat and follows her.
© Simone wedge
2009 Read more -> Dreamcatcher - Four
Kerastase Kératine
I write the time on a novel with the working title dream catcher. It is about a man on the search is. Ostensibly for a girl who, before his eyes, and actually fell off a bridge would be dead. I write 'really' because he takes them to be dead, her body was not found, and he dreams of her, and 'superficial' because the search for her, developed more and more a search for themselves and for the truth. The story is told from his point of view and his perception - and he himself - is moving more or less in the reality or the reality as he perceives it and him - seen through his eyes - revealed.
It's a fascinating thing that the world through the eyes of his to look at the protagonists, but also not easy because you have to yourself - as a writer - keep out a bit and the figure give space to develop, but they let go at the same time not completely, so that she was still in the direction is, in they should. The
sure everything sounds a bit confusing and it probably is too, but definitely makes it a lot of fun! :-)
Maybe I'll post here after and after a few chapters, but this is quite difficult to stage because I actually change constantly. ;-)
Sample
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Prom Gown Rental Manila
Dream Catcher - Two
His mouth is dry and sticky. Henry tried to swallow. In vain. Rattling let him raise his pounding head and look to the original direction of the noise.
A small fire dances a few feet in front of his eyes and he has eyelids squint in order to reveal something of the environment.
behind the fire, a man sits on a folding chair. He just screwed the lid on a thermos bottle and stowed it in a white plastic bag next to his right leg. To his left sits a small brown dog, whose tail excited drumming on the frozen grass remains, as the man he strokes his head.
with a pocket knife he peels an apple. The red shell winds moving in a spiral to the ground term.
"Yes, Chester, it's time for us. "He puts his head in his neck humming monotonously with the North Wind and wiggled his big feet, which put in a light brown moccasins.
Henry pulls his arms out from under his body and groaned, as he approached the painful elbow to the fire crawls. He will not fall close to the flame and stretched out, with his last strength, an arm in the direction of the man from. The palm open, fingers spread apart.
Chester barks twice in quick succession, but remains seated.
"Yes, Chester, it always is. In the end, asking and begging them while they still have no reason to ask. "
in small bites, he can be the apple in his great Mouth disappear, chewing every piece thoroughly, so that flash out his exceptionally white teeth between his lips.
In Henry's head whirl picture scraps, blurred fragments of intangible Scenes from another life. The palms pressed to his temples, he tried to stop the vortex. Impossible. So he tries to get up to at least give his body the appearance of normality, but his legs are frozen stiff and unusable. Furious, he beats his fists on his thighs, until sweat combines with its icy hair, and finally gives up.
He collects saliva. It takes an eternity until it enough together has to swallow. "Who are you?" He produced gasps and his body is immediately shaken by a dry cough.
"Who am I, Chester? Am I somebody? "The man looks at his dog, then to the sky, some lying on the sleepy stars between clouds billowing out beds, as if expecting an answer. But neither the stars nor Chester seem to know the answer to. He weighs his head back and forth, digs out a woolen cap from the plastic bag and pulls them up over his ears. Then he gets up, braces his arms in the back and pressed by his cross. He collapsed with the small chair, after his vertebrae cracked extensively, and stowed it with his other belongings in a plastic bag. He leint at Chester and is directly in front of Henry's face in a crouch.
"I am a wanderer," he said, and sees in Henry's eyes. "Nothing."
are from a distance to hear sirens. Chester sniffs at Henry's face.
"I have a collect what was thrown away. As the brave men of the garbage disposal. Everyone knows them, appreciate their work, but they were going out of the way, if possible. "
He plucked a few leaves from Henry's hair, sniffs it and flicks it, after careful consideration, into the fire. "Sometimes you get something and sometimes not." He sighed theatrical. "But you always meet twice. As it says, is not it? "He grabs his bag, pulled out a thick scarf and wraps it around his neck. With the palm of his hand he pushed a few strands of his long black hair under his cap, turns around without another word, and strolls along the riverbank. He plunged into the darkness and becomes one with her. And Henry's mind slips into it with him.
The nurse called it a miracle, and clapped enthusiastically in their fleshy baby doll hands. That they did not kiss him, he owed only the presence of the senior physician. Henry was taken by several students at the advanced bespectacled pupils, as a singing elderberry shrub. There was talk of Severe hypothermia, as this would be the most desirable goal at all. I want for Christmas severe hypothermia. But of course you do, but everyone that does!
His body temperature was 27 ° C, as the ambulance took him. The nurses and the doctor had to spent the night assistant not been in a hurry, with a body temperature in these areas was not much to do. Only when he asked for a glass of water, was hurried.
Henry is swaying slightly at the entrance of the municipal clinics and the nurse tried to change his mind still. She babbles on and on about the risks and that his body temperature is not high enough and his condition has not was stable. In the end she comes to him even maternal and tells him to do it for them, if not for themselves
flash he pushes her his hands on his round shoulders and pulls her to him, that his nose almost its touched. She begins to shiver immediately and tried to squirm from his grasp. His hands are clamps. He grins in the face. "For you?" He asks. "For you, should I stay? This is what you want? "
your breathing is shallow and lowers his eyes. Her whole body is in motion wobbly when he finally let go. "Everything Good," she whispers and pulls the mouth into a crooked smile twists, his arms protectively around the upper body and goes to the main entrance into it without turning around.
The colors are incredible. Never before has he seen intense red. Noticeable heat wafts from the neon sign over the gas station and makes his eyes tear. He is on the opposite side of the road and let the colors in his body to penetrate. He looks at his hands. Winter hands, glowing blue light when he clenches his fists and knows when he is relaxed again.
Henry is wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans, about half-length coat. On her feet dark shoes with thick soles tiefgefurchten. He is warm. Uncomfortably warm.
A young man in a green shirt comes to the front door of the gas station and look across at him. A golden badge attached to his left chest. He taps a few seconds from one foot to the other before he resumes his place behind the cash register. Visibly nervous.
Henry walks slowly past the illuminated showcase series, stunned by the variety of colors. Hard to believe how many reds there.
The smells of the city lie heavy on his bronchial tubes. Exhaust, spices and human exhalations. It smells like sex and conflict and fear. And he has his whole body control , Muster in order not to pass. For all the overwhelming emotions, the dripping crowd against him.
In his pants pocket, a bunch of keys. A flat key, a look of smaller, like that of a locker, like those found in sports facilities and a car key. He has no idea where he lives or what his name is. Only a blurred image of itself is rooted in his deepest convolutions. Too shadowy to be tangible.
He can drive without paying attention to his steps, and finally stand before a large building, which differs nothing from the others in the area. A worn wooden staircase leads him to a door that open easily with one of the key can. A large cat jumps
graugetigerter meet him, but when he combed his hair behind his ears, he begins to hiss and retreats under the Heating, from where he observed with twinkling eyes.
Henry walks through the spacious apartment, his hands can be on the bare countertop of the kitchen stress through the living area, with white cabinets and a cozy-looking brown sofa, in the partitioned off only by a screen, bedroom. The bed is unmade and the ceiling is on the ground. He picks it up and buried his face in the smooth satin. Inhalation. A sense of understanding enables the spread through his body and hammering from the inside of his abdomen.
His eyes fall on a small photo, frameless leaning on the bedside lamp. It is larger and larger as the room starts to blur it and Henry cries. An endless cry forced from his lungs rebounded from the walls and ceiling, and shoots like a foreign body through his ear back into its core.
A metal rattle him tears from his trance in which he spent half the day. Perry jumps from the countertop of the kitchen cabinet and pulls down on his observation post on the heater.
With his back against the bed frame leaning the ceiling has pressed on, Henry sat motionless and stared at Jessica's photo. And gradually the memory is returned.
has often tried to jump, and bounce it always sought new places - the TV Tower, a skyscraper, different bridges - but he always had been there in time to save her. It was almost like a game between them was. She wrote a letter and he found it.
"If your love is strong, you'll find me." She said. And he has found, over and over again. They did not call it jumping, they called it flying. So many times he has asked for the why and then she looked deep into his eyes. "I must fly, Henry. Ask you an angel, why he needs to fly? "And then she grabbed him with both hands in her hair and pulled his head against her shoulder.
A sob shook Henry's body and a desperate anger is spreading in his intestines. He hits his fist on the metal frame of the bloody French bed until the pain in his hand superimposed on the inside.
Why did not this time they can keep what had been different this time? He closes his eyes and let the images go by without intervening. A silent observer only, the classification makes no, nothing glossed over or changed.
He had come in time, she was so near and yet he could not . Reach The cold ... The icy sparkle of steel beams ... your view of the sky ... She was not alone on the bridge, there was someone else and she looked at him without fear.
After the blast, the Henry slowed. Specifically, it appears to him from a distance. A focused blast, just there to stop him.
And then the walkers. Henry had taken him for an imagination. But the memory is too real to have sprung from his imagination. He almost can hear the fire crackle and still taste the smoke in his mouth. If the man has really been there, he has probably seen it fall.
The small white flowers on the wallpaper whisk to a bound Mass and eventually seep to the ground exhausted. This gives no sense at all.
He goes into the kitchen, opens a can of cat food and fill Perry's bowl. The cat watching him from the corner of his eye, the neck hair bristling, the muscles to spring tension. Henry stretched out a hand to him, and an anxious to meet him hiss hiss.
The skin of his hands still shines blue. His slender fingers seem to suck the air of the environment in order to concentrate and to withdraw all its heat, as in the heart of a blizzard. He presses his palms together and then he himself feels the chill that emanates from his body.
On the floor are his chest old brown leather gloves, he pulls over and goes outside to find answers, although he has no idea where to look for it.
© Simone wedge 2009 Read
next -> Dream Catcher - Three 
His mouth is dry and sticky. Henry tried to swallow. In vain. Rattling let him raise his pounding head and look to the original direction of the noise.
A small fire dances a few feet in front of his eyes and he has eyelids squint in order to reveal something of the environment.
behind the fire, a man sits on a folding chair. He just screwed the lid on a thermos bottle and stowed it in a white plastic bag next to his right leg. To his left sits a small brown dog, whose tail excited drumming on the frozen grass remains, as the man he strokes his head.
with a pocket knife he peels an apple. The red shell winds moving in a spiral to the ground term.
"Yes, Chester, it's time for us. "He puts his head in his neck humming monotonously with the North Wind and wiggled his big feet, which put in a light brown moccasins.
Henry pulls his arms out from under his body and groaned, as he approached the painful elbow to the fire crawls. He will not fall close to the flame and stretched out, with his last strength, an arm in the direction of the man from. The palm open, fingers spread apart.
Chester barks twice in quick succession, but remains seated.
"Yes, Chester, it always is. In the end, asking and begging them while they still have no reason to ask. "
in small bites, he can be the apple in his great Mouth disappear, chewing every piece thoroughly, so that flash out his exceptionally white teeth between his lips.
In Henry's head whirl picture scraps, blurred fragments of intangible Scenes from another life. The palms pressed to his temples, he tried to stop the vortex. Impossible. So he tries to get up to at least give his body the appearance of normality, but his legs are frozen stiff and unusable. Furious, he beats his fists on his thighs, until sweat combines with its icy hair, and finally gives up.
He collects saliva. It takes an eternity until it enough together has to swallow. "Who are you?" He produced gasps and his body is immediately shaken by a dry cough.
"Who am I, Chester? Am I somebody? "The man looks at his dog, then to the sky, some lying on the sleepy stars between clouds billowing out beds, as if expecting an answer. But neither the stars nor Chester seem to know the answer to. He weighs his head back and forth, digs out a woolen cap from the plastic bag and pulls them up over his ears. Then he gets up, braces his arms in the back and pressed by his cross. He collapsed with the small chair, after his vertebrae cracked extensively, and stowed it with his other belongings in a plastic bag. He leint at Chester and is directly in front of Henry's face in a crouch.
"I am a wanderer," he said, and sees in Henry's eyes. "Nothing."
are from a distance to hear sirens. Chester sniffs at Henry's face.
"I have a collect what was thrown away. As the brave men of the garbage disposal. Everyone knows them, appreciate their work, but they were going out of the way, if possible. "
He plucked a few leaves from Henry's hair, sniffs it and flicks it, after careful consideration, into the fire. "Sometimes you get something and sometimes not." He sighed theatrical. "But you always meet twice. As it says, is not it? "He grabs his bag, pulled out a thick scarf and wraps it around his neck. With the palm of his hand he pushed a few strands of his long black hair under his cap, turns around without another word, and strolls along the riverbank. He plunged into the darkness and becomes one with her. And Henry's mind slips into it with him.
The nurse called it a miracle, and clapped enthusiastically in their fleshy baby doll hands. That they did not kiss him, he owed only the presence of the senior physician. Henry was taken by several students at the advanced bespectacled pupils, as a singing elderberry shrub. There was talk of Severe hypothermia, as this would be the most desirable goal at all. I want for Christmas severe hypothermia. But of course you do, but everyone that does!
His body temperature was 27 ° C, as the ambulance took him. The nurses and the doctor had to spent the night assistant not been in a hurry, with a body temperature in these areas was not much to do. Only when he asked for a glass of water, was hurried.
Henry is swaying slightly at the entrance of the municipal clinics and the nurse tried to change his mind still. She babbles on and on about the risks and that his body temperature is not high enough and his condition has not was stable. In the end she comes to him even maternal and tells him to do it for them, if not for themselves
flash he pushes her his hands on his round shoulders and pulls her to him, that his nose almost its touched. She begins to shiver immediately and tried to squirm from his grasp. His hands are clamps. He grins in the face. "For you?" He asks. "For you, should I stay? This is what you want? "
your breathing is shallow and lowers his eyes. Her whole body is in motion wobbly when he finally let go. "Everything Good," she whispers and pulls the mouth into a crooked smile twists, his arms protectively around the upper body and goes to the main entrance into it without turning around.
The colors are incredible. Never before has he seen intense red. Noticeable heat wafts from the neon sign over the gas station and makes his eyes tear. He is on the opposite side of the road and let the colors in his body to penetrate. He looks at his hands. Winter hands, glowing blue light when he clenches his fists and knows when he is relaxed again.
Henry is wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans, about half-length coat. On her feet dark shoes with thick soles tiefgefurchten. He is warm. Uncomfortably warm.
A young man in a green shirt comes to the front door of the gas station and look across at him. A golden badge attached to his left chest. He taps a few seconds from one foot to the other before he resumes his place behind the cash register. Visibly nervous.
Henry walks slowly past the illuminated showcase series, stunned by the variety of colors. Hard to believe how many reds there.
The smells of the city lie heavy on his bronchial tubes. Exhaust, spices and human exhalations. It smells like sex and conflict and fear. And he has his whole body control , Muster in order not to pass. For all the overwhelming emotions, the dripping crowd against him.
In his pants pocket, a bunch of keys. A flat key, a look of smaller, like that of a locker, like those found in sports facilities and a car key. He has no idea where he lives or what his name is. Only a blurred image of itself is rooted in his deepest convolutions. Too shadowy to be tangible.
He can drive without paying attention to his steps, and finally stand before a large building, which differs nothing from the others in the area. A worn wooden staircase leads him to a door that open easily with one of the key can. A large cat jumps
graugetigerter meet him, but when he combed his hair behind his ears, he begins to hiss and retreats under the Heating, from where he observed with twinkling eyes.
Henry walks through the spacious apartment, his hands can be on the bare countertop of the kitchen stress through the living area, with white cabinets and a cozy-looking brown sofa, in the partitioned off only by a screen, bedroom. The bed is unmade and the ceiling is on the ground. He picks it up and buried his face in the smooth satin. Inhalation. A sense of understanding enables the spread through his body and hammering from the inside of his abdomen.
His eyes fall on a small photo, frameless leaning on the bedside lamp. It is larger and larger as the room starts to blur it and Henry cries. An endless cry forced from his lungs rebounded from the walls and ceiling, and shoots like a foreign body through his ear back into its core.
A metal rattle him tears from his trance in which he spent half the day. Perry jumps from the countertop of the kitchen cabinet and pulls down on his observation post on the heater.
With his back against the bed frame leaning the ceiling has pressed on, Henry sat motionless and stared at Jessica's photo. And gradually the memory is returned.
has often tried to jump, and bounce it always sought new places - the TV Tower, a skyscraper, different bridges - but he always had been there in time to save her. It was almost like a game between them was. She wrote a letter and he found it.
"If your love is strong, you'll find me." She said. And he has found, over and over again. They did not call it jumping, they called it flying. So many times he has asked for the why and then she looked deep into his eyes. "I must fly, Henry. Ask you an angel, why he needs to fly? "And then she grabbed him with both hands in her hair and pulled his head against her shoulder.
A sob shook Henry's body and a desperate anger is spreading in his intestines. He hits his fist on the metal frame of the bloody French bed until the pain in his hand superimposed on the inside.
Why did not this time they can keep what had been different this time? He closes his eyes and let the images go by without intervening. A silent observer only, the classification makes no, nothing glossed over or changed.
He had come in time, she was so near and yet he could not . Reach The cold ... The icy sparkle of steel beams ... your view of the sky ... She was not alone on the bridge, there was someone else and she looked at him without fear.
After the blast, the Henry slowed. Specifically, it appears to him from a distance. A focused blast, just there to stop him.
And then the walkers. Henry had taken him for an imagination. But the memory is too real to have sprung from his imagination. He almost can hear the fire crackle and still taste the smoke in his mouth. If the man has really been there, he has probably seen it fall.
The small white flowers on the wallpaper whisk to a bound Mass and eventually seep to the ground exhausted. This gives no sense at all.
He goes into the kitchen, opens a can of cat food and fill Perry's bowl. The cat watching him from the corner of his eye, the neck hair bristling, the muscles to spring tension. Henry stretched out a hand to him, and an anxious to meet him hiss hiss.
The skin of his hands still shines blue. His slender fingers seem to suck the air of the environment in order to concentrate and to withdraw all its heat, as in the heart of a blizzard. He presses his palms together and then he himself feels the chill that emanates from his body.
On the floor are his chest old brown leather gloves, he pulls over and goes outside to find answers, although he has no idea where to look for it.
© Simone wedge 2009 Read
next -> Dream Catcher - Three
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Spa Director Cover Letter
Dream Catcher - One
She pulls the door shut behind him and remains two breaths to stand until the finality that the clicking of the rusty castle evokes, is faded.
The key is quite warm from the pressure of her fingers. She puts it in a plain white envelope, moistens the adhesive surface of the tongue tip and pressed it with both hands. The envelope, slides into the mailbox and she walks down the worn steps of the wooden stairs. The sound of her heels breaks the silence of the staircase as first scattered drops of a downpour. Your palms will emphasize slightly over the railing and remove every scratch, every bump perceive it.
on the street makes her dirty white cold face. She closes her eyes. Henry will not understand, but it is the only way. It is her way and she must go alone.
lets her hands on the outside wall of the tenement walk scabbed. Your fingers begin to ache. You forgot to bring gloves. A smile makes in her neck wide and pushed for a moment the thick Klos, who has inhibited them to breathe free.
Henry runs. His breath breaks through the wall in cold clouds. Intermittently and heavy. While moving his feet, they seem to be stuck.
The city around him, fluttering rapidly. A silver sedan with the insane speed to turn the corner. Traffic lights that change color every second. And people whose bodies dissolve right next to him to be in the same moment, a hundred yards to materialize before him.
Why was he just fell asleep again. Angry tears running down his face and form icicles on his nose. Hot sweat trickles him down to the spine. His fingernails dug deep into his palms and he is a growl as he could to defeat his slowness to flight.
The letter weighs tons of heavy in his jacket pocket. Crumpled the paper between his fingers, he tried to squeeze her whereabouts. No! That would not be the end. Not now and not in this way.
He concentrates. Close your eyes and concentrate only on breathing, on his heartbeat. Only the vital body functions.
He would make time! He has still managed on time. So where is she? He holds his face in the bitter cold and hides all thoughts. He tries to sensing. And suddenly everything is clear.
It goes quickly but not too fast. Determined she directs her steps down the main street, where the uniform blocks of flats, with the blunt by windows.
A few kids hanging around in a doorway and smoke. The smoldering cigarette in the palm of his hand hidden. The shoulders hunched, heads down, stare at her defiance in the face. Her dark jackets merge with the gray facades, as if they were one with them.
The pedestrian traffic light at the intersection turns green and she hurries to get over in time. Already
around the next corner you can see the contours of the old railway bridge. Clear edged structures that emphasize behind light fog. She likes no-frills architecture. She radiates something hearty fare. Security.
ice crystals have settled on the steel girders and glisten in the light of the setting sun. Fairy dust. Used to be desired.
A figure approaches her. She walks slow, comes forth clouds of smoke between the cap and scarf. On a leash, she performs a limp sausage dog, the more it drags behind him as he runs himself. Jessica
changes sides and stroll past her without a word, waiting until the two are out of sight and pulls himself up from the parapet. They ignored the burning in their palms and rises across. The water is deep black. Hardly recognizable. Only occasionally breaks the sparkle uniform.
city noises penetrate into his consciousness. Engine noise. Scattered votes. And the reality is back to normal pace.
Henry begins to move. Snow burst splinter under his feet and be scattered at his heels. He bumps into a boy in an olive green army jacket, who stumbles out of a dark doorway, and pushes him against the wall of the apartment building. Crude curses following him until he comes around the next corner.
He ignored frantic honking, the pedestrian light when he crosses in red. Slips out and starts off on the hood of a brown van, whose driver he clenched behind the front wheel against his right fist and simultaneously with the left index finger to his forehead taps, when he tried to carve a third eye.
Only a corner and he sees it. Your body stands out from the shimmering outline. It did not move. Only her hair buzzing excitedly about their dark red winter jacket. Her gaze is directed at the sky, as they observe something there.
Only a few steps. "Jessica!" He smashes her name into the night. And she turns her head in his direction. A blast freezes the sweat on his forehead to frost and drives him goose bumps on arms and neck, braces himself against his steps and force from him.
Jessica looks at him. She smiles? It almost seems as if they had been expecting him. As if she had only been waiting for him before they are released.
He has no choice. He jumps. With a mighty leap, he dives over the railing and grabs her arms, she has raised high above his head, and gets to take one of her hands. The zipper open their parkas and punches him in the face by the frozen skin of his cheek to burst. He holds her hand tightly in his. His whole life.
standstill. Pain. Cold. Breathless cold and then nothing. He looks into her eyes. Green ponds. In oxygen, but not lifeless. He has lost contact with the rowing desperately poor and they take no more. Her lips form words. Her hair is driving to her face, such as reed grass that sways in a warm summer breeze. He shouts her name. Walking to his lungs burst.
© Simone wedge
2009 Read more -> Dream Catcher - Two 
She pulls the door shut behind him and remains two breaths to stand until the finality that the clicking of the rusty castle evokes, is faded.
The key is quite warm from the pressure of her fingers. She puts it in a plain white envelope, moistens the adhesive surface of the tongue tip and pressed it with both hands. The envelope, slides into the mailbox and she walks down the worn steps of the wooden stairs. The sound of her heels breaks the silence of the staircase as first scattered drops of a downpour. Your palms will emphasize slightly over the railing and remove every scratch, every bump perceive it.
on the street makes her dirty white cold face. She closes her eyes. Henry will not understand, but it is the only way. It is her way and she must go alone.
lets her hands on the outside wall of the tenement walk scabbed. Your fingers begin to ache. You forgot to bring gloves. A smile makes in her neck wide and pushed for a moment the thick Klos, who has inhibited them to breathe free.
Henry runs. His breath breaks through the wall in cold clouds. Intermittently and heavy. While moving his feet, they seem to be stuck.
The city around him, fluttering rapidly. A silver sedan with the insane speed to turn the corner. Traffic lights that change color every second. And people whose bodies dissolve right next to him to be in the same moment, a hundred yards to materialize before him.
Why was he just fell asleep again. Angry tears running down his face and form icicles on his nose. Hot sweat trickles him down to the spine. His fingernails dug deep into his palms and he is a growl as he could to defeat his slowness to flight.
The letter weighs tons of heavy in his jacket pocket. Crumpled the paper between his fingers, he tried to squeeze her whereabouts. No! That would not be the end. Not now and not in this way.
He concentrates. Close your eyes and concentrate only on breathing, on his heartbeat. Only the vital body functions.
He would make time! He has still managed on time. So where is she? He holds his face in the bitter cold and hides all thoughts. He tries to sensing. And suddenly everything is clear.
It goes quickly but not too fast. Determined she directs her steps down the main street, where the uniform blocks of flats, with the blunt by windows.
A few kids hanging around in a doorway and smoke. The smoldering cigarette in the palm of his hand hidden. The shoulders hunched, heads down, stare at her defiance in the face. Her dark jackets merge with the gray facades, as if they were one with them.
The pedestrian traffic light at the intersection turns green and she hurries to get over in time. Already
around the next corner you can see the contours of the old railway bridge. Clear edged structures that emphasize behind light fog. She likes no-frills architecture. She radiates something hearty fare. Security.
ice crystals have settled on the steel girders and glisten in the light of the setting sun. Fairy dust. Used to be desired.
A figure approaches her. She walks slow, comes forth clouds of smoke between the cap and scarf. On a leash, she performs a limp sausage dog, the more it drags behind him as he runs himself. Jessica
changes sides and stroll past her without a word, waiting until the two are out of sight and pulls himself up from the parapet. They ignored the burning in their palms and rises across. The water is deep black. Hardly recognizable. Only occasionally breaks the sparkle uniform.
city noises penetrate into his consciousness. Engine noise. Scattered votes. And the reality is back to normal pace.
Henry begins to move. Snow burst splinter under his feet and be scattered at his heels. He bumps into a boy in an olive green army jacket, who stumbles out of a dark doorway, and pushes him against the wall of the apartment building. Crude curses following him until he comes around the next corner.
He ignored frantic honking, the pedestrian light when he crosses in red. Slips out and starts off on the hood of a brown van, whose driver he clenched behind the front wheel against his right fist and simultaneously with the left index finger to his forehead taps, when he tried to carve a third eye.
Only a corner and he sees it. Your body stands out from the shimmering outline. It did not move. Only her hair buzzing excitedly about their dark red winter jacket. Her gaze is directed at the sky, as they observe something there.
Only a few steps. "Jessica!" He smashes her name into the night. And she turns her head in his direction. A blast freezes the sweat on his forehead to frost and drives him goose bumps on arms and neck, braces himself against his steps and force from him.
Jessica looks at him. She smiles? It almost seems as if they had been expecting him. As if she had only been waiting for him before they are released.
He has no choice. He jumps. With a mighty leap, he dives over the railing and grabs her arms, she has raised high above his head, and gets to take one of her hands. The zipper open their parkas and punches him in the face by the frozen skin of his cheek to burst. He holds her hand tightly in his. His whole life.
standstill. Pain. Cold. Breathless cold and then nothing. He looks into her eyes. Green ponds. In oxygen, but not lifeless. He has lost contact with the rowing desperately poor and they take no more. Her lips form words. Her hair is driving to her face, such as reed grass that sways in a warm summer breeze. He shouts her name. Walking to his lungs burst.
© Simone wedge
2009 Read more -> Dream Catcher - Two
Ny Disability Not On W-2
The storm
is in the wind, the fire world. The cities crackle.
halloo, the storm, the great storm is here.
A little girl is flying by the siblings.
A young car flees to Ithaca.
A way has lost its direction completely. The stars are
scraped the sky.
A lunatic is born too early. In San Francisco
the moon is broken.
Alfred Lichtenstein (1889 - 1914) 
is in the wind, the fire world. The cities crackle.
halloo, the storm, the great storm is here.
A little girl is flying by the siblings.
A young car flees to Ithaca.
A way has lost its direction completely. The stars are
scraped the sky.
A lunatic is born too early. In San Francisco
the moon is broken.
Alfred Lichtenstein (1889 - 1914)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Milena Velba Is She A Lesbian
untitled
And when my heart beat in the evening sets,
make your bed, turn around and hardly suggests
I know that the same silence
knocks on my door.
But still it is not still in me.
In the garden scramble cats.
an Inorganic wheel
front of the window and a rumble.
My neighbor stares TV,
like every night.
It is equal to four.
wishes go swimming. -
I'm here.
My alarm clock shows me every hour and
what it proposes.
What is so wrong to hope that.
I close the book and open my door.
And then there is also still in me.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
And when my heart beat in the evening sets,
make your bed, turn around and hardly suggests
I know that the same silence
knocks on my door.
But still it is not still in me.
In the garden scramble cats.
an Inorganic wheel
front of the window and a rumble.
My neighbor stares TV,
like every night.
It is equal to four.
wishes go swimming. -
I'm here.
My alarm clock shows me every hour and
what it proposes.
What is so wrong to hope that.
I close the book and open my door.
And then there is also still in me.
© 2009 Simone wedge
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Stelton Bowling Coupon
Shong-Lueck from Fronk Raisch!
No, not Shong Luck! But
: Nadege from France honored just the coffee community with their visit. Nadege works as a volunteer at the European TPZ Lingen and uses the coffee community for their "petit projet. The Vorbreitungen for their theme night are already in full swing and what the outcome would learn, see and taste, then on Saturday, 20th June the clock at 20:00 theme night "Frank - Country - German - Reich in the café of Professor Lingener house.
What is it about? Nadege and the coffee community look clichés! Stereotypes and prejudices on both France and through Deuschland.
The word "cliché" means, translated, and frankly, not only cliché but also print the form, print or graphics. Therefore, it has photographs of French things that we will face in an exhibition of the same things German. French or German cow "vache"?
In search of the images in our minds, we have about each other, we have in the pedestrian zone a micro-walk (loosely translated: "Micro sidewalk" = survey) done.
We took the mic baguette, the Basque drawn deeper into the end caps and are losgegzogen. For international understanding, language confusion understandable confusion and people! . The questions we asked
(Oh yes, if you feel like you answer the questions spontaneously with a comment on the comments
your personal answer in this case is the right one - because we want to know what you think Not.. what you think to know to have.)
Bon. Premiere questions!
first What comes spontaneously to France?
second What is the first word in French which now you come into your head?
third What is a typical French food? (Please Yes! clichés!)
4th Name three cities in France (holiday, nuclear waste, football, exchange ... only as a hint! Oh pardon Nadege forget severally abe: no tips)
5th! Tell us a famous French personality!
6th Can you tell us a political or historical event that you connect with Franbkreich! (Yes, more cliches please!)
7th Paint us a typical Frenchman or Frenchwoman! (This is difficult on the net ... Maybe a link?)
8th How would the name of the typical French? And we say its typical French woman?
9th What is a German in France the most? (Pardon said manner. What he lacks, because he can not find nothin 'in France Äääh miss ..!)
10th Have a question?
Sun
Now the bonuses!
We have taken the fun and Redewedungen translated from French into German one to one.
here for a selection of the most beautiful language, the plants grown from this transaction are:
What do French people say if they:
- I'm as round as the tail of a shovel!
- This makes a hole in my ass!
- a small bike you have in your head!
- My hair hurt!
- by enabling the weapon to the left. sharpen somebody a whistle -
.
- I had to laugh yellow.
- innocents!
- I step in the sauerkraut (optional yogurt).
- The skin my ass on the floor.
- This Concert, it is moving! What
here under to understand my , the correct answer! Your (mis) understanding of the truth - so to speak. Merci for your answers.
The resolution of the phrases, and even more, there is the night of the topics coffee community on Saturday 20th June "Frank - Country - German - Reich.
No, not Shong Luck! But
: Nadege from France honored just the coffee community with their visit. Nadege works as a volunteer at the European TPZ Lingen and uses the coffee community for their "petit projet. The Vorbreitungen for their theme night are already in full swing and what the outcome would learn, see and taste, then on Saturday, 20th June the clock at 20:00 theme night "Frank - Country - German - Reich in the café of Professor Lingener house.
What is it about? Nadege and the coffee community look clichés! Stereotypes and prejudices on both France and through Deuschland.
The word "cliché" means, translated, and frankly, not only cliché but also print the form, print or graphics. Therefore, it has photographs of French things that we will face in an exhibition of the same things German. French or German cow "vache"?
In search of the images in our minds, we have about each other, we have in the pedestrian zone a micro-walk (loosely translated: "Micro sidewalk" = survey) done.
We took the mic baguette, the Basque drawn deeper into the end caps and are losgegzogen. For international understanding, language confusion understandable confusion and people! . The questions we asked
(Oh yes, if you feel like you answer the questions spontaneously with a comment on the comments
your personal answer in this case is the right one - because we want to know what you think Not.. what you think to know to have.)
Bon. Premiere questions!
first What comes spontaneously to France?
second What is the first word in French which now you come into your head?
third What is a typical French food? (Please Yes! clichés!)
4th Name three cities in France (holiday, nuclear waste, football, exchange ... only as a hint! Oh pardon Nadege forget severally abe: no tips)
5th! Tell us a famous French personality!
6th Can you tell us a political or historical event that you connect with Franbkreich! (Yes, more cliches please!)
7th Paint us a typical Frenchman or Frenchwoman! (This is difficult on the net ... Maybe a link?)
8th How would the name of the typical French? And we say its typical French woman?
9th What is a German in France the most? (Pardon said manner. What he lacks, because he can not find nothin 'in France Äääh miss ..!)
10th Have a question?
Sun
Now the bonuses!
We have taken the fun and Redewedungen translated from French into German one to one.
here for a selection of the most beautiful language, the plants grown from this transaction are:
What do French people say if they:
- I'm as round as the tail of a shovel!
- This makes a hole in my ass!
- a small bike you have in your head!
- My hair hurt!
- by enabling the weapon to the left. sharpen somebody a whistle -
.
- I had to laugh yellow.
- innocents!
- I step in the sauerkraut (optional yogurt).
- The skin my ass on the floor.
- This Concert, it is moving! What
here under to understand my , the correct answer! Your (mis) understanding of the truth - so to speak. Merci for your answers.
The resolution of the phrases, and even more, there is the night of the topics coffee community on Saturday 20th June "Frank - Country - German - Reich.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Ejaculate During Waxing?
sparks
Before the world goes down,
on a Wednesday afternoon,
I will be the spark asks,
is where the gas cans.
It may be that you
denied the answer
me and tells me
must not play with fire you.
Yet! I would like to be drunk
of fresh bio-ethanol.
I said again to the well, would have sunk
the world.
© 2009 Simone wedge 
Before the world goes down,
on a Wednesday afternoon,
I will be the spark asks,
is where the gas cans.
It may be that you
denied the answer
me and tells me
must not play with fire you.
Yet! I would like to be drunk
of fresh bio-ethanol.
I said again to the well, would have sunk
the world.
© 2009 Simone wedge
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