Adjectives List Of Mandarin

I dreamed

K. Those dreams that appear suddenly and for no reason always make me nostalgic. Simple dreams of peaceful coexistence, in which there are only company to have a coffee or watch a film. Two or three nights ago was K, but sometimes it's someone else, almost always the same, which escoda me in life and in dreams. We never talk. K smiled and with those determined eyes seemed to say everything you need. I simply see it also in silence. Upon awakening from dreams and I am expelled from paradise transition of peace or harmony that I've rarely found in life. I read or heard, perhaps invented, that the most difficult to share the silence. Maybe from there comes the nostalgia. To open their eyes to a world of words, a noisy world and almost all the time confused. Talk, write, read. Always messages of others; trivial messages that hide the true meaning of words. Understood to mean, living in a double uncertainty, the bane of bad grammar finished yet is the only way, the only tool that I hope can take some time to quiet reality that dream. So far, I had thought that a world in which there anything left to say would be an empty world. To wake from that dream where Karina looked me in silence and without end, where I watched and understood the reason for his silent presence, I am tempted to change his mind. Maybe the last step is silence. If we invent words to explain to the world, also invented to create lies, misunderstandings and convenient excuses to escape from the truth. On the other hand, can not lie in silence and only silence rests. The silence is peace, silence is agreement and harmony. Perhaps what the dream is trying to tell me that, that the only way of saying things and to avoid interference or language is silent anguish, the waiver language. Not a sign, gesture or touch. Maybe paradise comes to the world when it ceases the word, perhaps the demiurge is silent, unassuming, will be a sports crazy solipsita in a world without interference. Karina dreamed. We share a silence. And waking, I did not get it, or remember the night we met. I dreamed about it and woke up with this fine image, the red flower and short hair. I was sad. In a world without words, the name was not slow to erase the image and not lose face slow to stay in six letters and no echoes. In silence, words do not rise trenches between my memory and reality. Close my eyes and create your picture instead of writing his name. Perhaps, as Hamlet said it was not a prediction or a metaphor for death, but the only desire we all share. The rest is silence.

Scooter Metal Wheels'

Not a chance. (Milena)

- And if you remember all this, the punishment has not to be so terrible.

William Faulkner

And it seems that not even in my dreams I can find you. Your wish that I imagine or guess, the desire to lose and erase you from my world, is materialized or dematerialized little by little in reality that do not show up for almost two years in memory, where every day you are more blurred and like something I invented, a sculpture consisting of countless sketches, all imperfect, invisible. Every day more perfect, but also more distant. So much so that even scares me get you in the words where I could catch you while you, in words that perhaps they would know to return your image, but perhaps not. And I'd rather live with the uncertainty of losing even hope to bring you back from a couple of lines, or thousands, waiting in notebooks that I will never open.

Or I thought that it would not open. But do not count as a notebook when I just look for a file on the computer to explain to someone important what I think love means. And the file, which returns me your name but not your face, my descriptions but no past life, opens a new path in my life, a chance to get there to where I pointed out all the time and perhaps now, for your echo scope to finally arrive. I returned a letter your name, but nothing else, it makes me face to face with my loneliness and the feeling of being cursed and beaten, chased by the ghost of you that has no face, but I start any new principle, who has stolen my love and future with the same ease with which you stole from me years ago today. I still have the past and I'm thinking while I write a sad letter, asking if your curse is something that I imagined, if any body know tear it and the heart. The answer is not encouraging, nor is it expected, but the effect is the same. No way out of the labyrinth that describes your name, where I lost future and present, where I will spend time bouncing against the walls until you reach the final. Your echo is cruel and separates me from everything, but it is also ironic, because it reaches the attention of an editor who could well start building a future based on everything I've stolen, in exchange for all you gave me.

Am I selling you? I wonder when you press "send" to the new face of yours that has no figures and I've built with letters go far, half way between your country and mine. And if you sell your soul and mine or not, I do not care, because gradually forget you even remember you. Forgot your face, your gestures, your scent, but I remember your name and a bunch of words that no longer serve as a bridge between me today and our past. I'll be selling you, now I know, but what if you're not here to reproach, if you're not here to find out even that I have sold and now-that long now that is writing-everyone will know you as much as I knew, I find out that now, hopefully, a myriad of eyes made of words you will travel and will be the biggest nightmare we had together. Eye shadow, phantasms in the room, pointing out, chasing, moving away from each other. All the more reason to close the eyes to go through life blind from time to time, determined by something that is no longer creating ghosts and shadows I feared and prophesied that terrified us then that we were hiding from them closing their eyes in a hotel room in the dark, without light or shadows.

also as a prophecy or coincidence, dream to remember before I wake up the world's most inspiring message, the message to me one step closer to sell, and soon I'll be selling you, soon I will have sold. I dreamed of you in looking for a perfume, your mother, that you wore poaching first and then with the gall to teenage love. Which in the end you suitable for use each time we meet, every time you left me closer to your skin so that the world fell to you, which since then has been your perfume. Channel No. 5. I dreamed I held on to an arm that is not yours, praying that he will not depart because the smell was yours and you would soon conjure image, your calm presence in the middle of a dream. Grabbing, chasing your scent and asking you who turned out to be your mother, who looked at me condescendingly, with that look as pious woman who dreamed of from his name but it was also partly memory. He looked as if she too dependent on a perfume to ward off your memory, I smiled with some sadness and some shame also tell me before it dropped out, nobody knows where you are or with whom, although sometimes fire. But you never call to talk to your mom misses you as much as I and perhaps why use this perfume, because she too has lost you and did not have any choice to get you, because with that melancholy sad comfort and understanding is the way yours look for another echo in my empty body. With that tender gesture that position as mater dolorosa makes me understand that I will never see that even in my dreams I go hide and disappear for erasing, deleting your face, your eyes, your words and all . Awakened from sleep to read that message that tells me I'll be selling you. Pronto.

And it will, I will sell because the writers do not know anything else, we are dealers of ghosts, we shadows from one place to another and put them on stage before an audience sick who can not wait to take home and make them subject to his pleasure. Sell \u200b\u200byour shadow, pulling it increasingly difficult letters in books that I thought I re-opened. It will not be possible to hide our bodies from the gaze locked there with us, looks to past and future simultaneously with the letters, voyeuristic nightmare that I am at once victim and executioner in the way you always wanted; torment where simultaneous quantum not all realities and times I can find you. I'll call you Emily, but both know it's you and that even without you, even when you're not mine and never were, I sell, I will sell because I have to, because it is the only way left for me to recover, to drive nails to remember and not let go, to bite your flesh pale again, test your blood and paste outra vez seu Coração in these years sad and hopeless that follow your abandonment, which multiply your absence and when it seems that not even in my dreams I can find you.