Which Bmi Do Models Have

Piangeva ridendo, come fanno i pazzi e gli innamorati

C breathed deeply, while his feet (one below the other) dangling in the air.

C thought, and ripensva, and thought again. loved someone, perhaps, or hated, more likely. The banality of his person amused the world, clown himself and the world.
The air was warm, dry and comfortable. A slight feeling of well being through it, and extracted from the carrier a black Bic pen, smiling.
- As if it was your neck. - Whispered, breaking it.
could not suppress a grin joint pain and contempt, hatred and suffering.
He waited too long.
takes another Bic, looks at her.
- You are me, you will not die, not hours .- said with the tone of voice that people outside his world used with affection.
picked up a needle, stolen from one of the syringes with which his mother is forced to inject insulin every day; p made of scotch. The tape, not the liquor. rested the needle blunt end of the Bic whole, holding it with two fingers and stared at him well with the adhesive.
laughed Meanwhile, C, as if to mock the world, as if the whole world would laugh, then, that his joke. Once understood, of course.
took a lighter and burned all the needle. -
freed from all evil, needle .- whispered, eating the last letter, then dipped it in the ink of the Bic route before, so it is loaded with ink. The smile ran away again, this time more pronounced.
He pulled up his left sleeve, they disinfect the skin with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and immersed in a case in point, the needle dripping ink blue.
She felt little pain, he smiled and pulled out the needle, I just dived to one side, then pulled out, it dipped again in liquid Bic, then again in the arm.
So many times, including redness, blood, and yes - after a while - pain.
the evening was coming, and C through the tears continued his work.
- It's my skin, non potranno ignorare ancora. -
Finì, si disinfettò e attese che il rossore passasse, almeno un poco.
Pensò che i suoi genitori la stessero cercando, ma lei aveva gettato il telefonino nel fiume che scorreva a circa venti metri da lei. Ne sentiva la voce, del fiume.

Aprì gli occhi stordita, quasi incosciente: si era appisolata lì, ed aveva sfasato tutti i tempi.
Si alzò di scatto, e corse via lasciando tutto sul prato: la borsa, le Bic, l'ago, una maglietta.
Corse via, e stava piangendo. Piangeva di una felicità nuova, e tutt'altro che effimera. Piangeva ridendo, come fanno i pazzi e gli innamorati.

Scavalcò la balaustra del ponte e ci si sedette sopra, knew what he was doing. To the world, his face made her laugh, the way she walked, the way she move her hair, as he blew his nose, the shoes he wore, his distorted handwriting: everything about her laugh. And she laughed, C, laughing loudly.
raised his left arm in the air and then lower it and watch it, amazed at how he had managed well so far his plan.
"your death, vita mea"
his own handwriting was distorted, was able to reproduce it as such even on his body.
- Dear world, you laugh at me today. The fact is that you're always wrong, I'm not like you see me, and I have to kill the reality that you can give me. I have to live peacefully with the reality that is mine, and that should be everyone. I died the first day of life, when the nurse, looking at my gambina shorter than the other, could not restrain that wicked little smile. I died that day, and you - worldwide - have boasted to impose your reality on me that I was dead. Today I win. Today I'll show I'm not like you saw me, although that will remain in your memory. But the past is the past for the future and I have nothing to lose. "

It dropped slightly in the deep of the night, down from the bridge. Down in the lives of all people who laughed at her, down from the train life: fallen, to an intermediate station.

Professional Letter Interest

F partiva per l'infinito, e l'infinito non si sa mai dov'è.

a heavy air plagued the waiting room of the station, a homeless man dying from the air had dozed off in the corner of the room in which a few years first, F, had known the person from whom he was fleeing.

was not there by chance, was not there to take a train to any destination any: he was there to go to freedom.

F came out to watch the tracks in that strange white veil, the dream of a cold January day. Think about how a train could not slip su quei pattini di acciaio, per finire fermo in stazioni sbagliate, forse, o in mezzo a prati grigi, meglio.

Non sapeva dove andare, ma sapeva perché stava andando. La libertà, questo voleva. E non quella libertà che dite voi, quella in cui potete vagare liberamente per la nazione, o uscire il sabato sera fino alle quattro del mattino, o fumare le sigarette alla luce del sole, o bere una birra insieme a vostro padre, o stare a casa da scuola in un giorno di stanchezza... no, quelle libertà non bastavano più a F.

Voleva la libertà assoluta, quella metafisica di chi è felice senza se stesso.

Non senza gli altri, senza se medesimi. Questo, era il trucco.

E così, F aspettava il suo treno guardando pensosamente il vapore uscire dalla sua bocca.

E così, F aveva scelto di andare dove nessuno potesse rimpiazzarla, od omologarla, o pensarla come un oggetto.

F partiva per l'infinito, e l'infinito non si sa mai dov'è.

Si accese una sigaretta con la tremante mano destra, sbuffando per gli arrancamenti dello zippo quasi scarico.
- "Non si parte mai per caso." - bisbigliò.
- "Certo che no, si parte per necessità." - le rispose il clochard che nel frattempo si era destato.
F non rispose, ma pensò a quella risposta con una mente nuova, con una mente fresca e lucida. F non rispose, ma pensò a quella risposta con la mente di una persona rinata, così, alla luce del sole. Freddo sole invernale.

"Si parte per necessità".
È vero. F si sistemò dietro l'oreccho destro un ciuffo di capelli che le era cascato sul volto; era convinta anche lei di questo: si parte per necessità.
Pensò alle più svariate tipologie di viaggio, dalla vacanza al viaggio di lavoro, dalla rimpatriata all'emigrazione. Tutte necessità. Fisiche o spirituali, non fa differenza.

F stava partendo perché sentiva il bisogno, dentro di sé, di doverlo fare.
Un uomo, da qualche parte nel mondo, stava salutando la sua famiglia per un viaggio d'affari.
Un ragazzo stava prendendo un volo per scoprire il mondo.
E così via.
- "Il mondo è pieno di persone che partono." - bisbigliò nuovamente, pensando.
- "Partono tutte per il bene." - disse il clochard. F si infastidì.

Guardò il treno arrivare da lontano, strinse i pugni. Quando il treno aprì le porte, F si girò verso il clochard ed urlò tra le lacrime: "No! No!".
Si sedette vicino ad un signore semiserio, impacchettato nel suo smoking macchiato sul ginocchio sinistro.
- "C'è chi parte per uccidere." - disse ad alta voce, e poi di nuovo: "C'è death down there. "- her eyes filled with anger, and shouted:" ... and you continue to call them heroes, as well. "

Towing Charlottesville

Beats che fan muovere la testa




I saw empty glasses between noises of fake fans in celebration, people are insulted for not Believe unequal religious blasphemy, which

to catch the pink without getting stung proibilti squirming among the tables of a local guardian lost a decisive day,

that to avoid the crowds by sailing around Ark which sank in the ocean of alcohol to a minor resigned this evil bad habit, that

to get the crowd dived to arms open in the hope that brotherly embrace, smelling the fragrance sweaty man.

I've seen light up cigarettes and consumed by the passage of time, people who watched the trembling mountain breezes,

to pop a kiss that any sale by weight of the lip lies, fear of not doing enough in itself,

that greeted strangers with kisses and pats on the back on the cheeks and then turn around and ask their American boy if he knew the case for at least their names.

Then I saw you, dip your hand in my hair to change its place as if it was wrong.

Praised always the smile that I carry on, and that you did not see why time is not enough.

(photo: Allen Ginsberg)