Ensaio sobre a cegueira, O evangelho segundo Jesus Cristo, O estrangeiro, A náusea, O retrato de Dorian Gray e mais uns poucos, não consigo dizê-los todos porque não há espaço...
of course it can! it's just that people really don't give a damn. globalization? the word is incantation. Leaving all of us with, the task of consideration. meaning, rhythm, and verse Aristotle put it nice, his words are so perverse, Academics read them twice. they read aloud and think "but what could this all mean?" it leaves them on the brink of madness (in between) Poets are like masons they build, they tear, they join language is their field and words are what they yield without it we would be or rather.... we wouldn't be at all.
Uma pessoa já não pode andar calmamente a passear que é logo alvo de críticas! :p Vim só ver se estavas bom e como não vi indícios de maleitas voltei à minha vida...lol E por falar em visitas, quando é que recebo uma tua, daquelas mesmo em pessoa? :)
Fotos de modelito o caraças ó chefe! Sou é belo, e disso não tenho culpa. Muito menos tenho responsabilidades acerca da tua fealdade ó Zé Parolo. Abraço
Candles They are the last romantics, these candles: Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers, And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes, Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints. It is touching, the way they'll ignore
A whole family of prominent objects Simply to plumb the deeps of an eye In its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds, And the owner past thirty, no beauty at all. Daylight would be more judicious,
Giving everybody a fair hearing. They should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon. This is no time for the private point of view. When I light them, my nostrils prickle. Their pale, tentative yellows
Drag up false, Edwardian sentiments, And I remember my maternal grandmother from Vienna. As a schoolgirl she gave roses to Franz Josef. The burghers sweated and wept. The children wore white. And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol,
Imagining himself a headwaiter in America, Floating in a high-church hush Among ice buckets, frosty napkins. These little globes of light are sweet as pears. Kindly with invalids and mawkish women,
They mollify the bald moon. Nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry. The eyes of the child I nurse are scarcely open. In twenty years I shall be retrograde As these drafty ephemerids.
I watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls. How shall I tell anything at all To this infant still in a birth-drowse? Tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her, The shadows stoop over the guests at a christening.
English
hi5 Coins
PARABENS!!!
:p