Cubefield Green Level

Misconceptions

At desperate search for a beta.
desperate.
need of proposals.


Kiraz : "Move your thing. No! Not so. "
I : " So? "
Kiraz : " Shake more! "
I : "But I have it on the mouth! "
Kiraz : " Put it in your mouth, then. "
I : 'more'?! "
Kiraz : " No, wait. I can not feel anything. Shake again. "


User manual (a microphone and its cable, yes). Funny
the reaction of the father who was eavesdropping. uu

Varicose Vein Vulva Not Pregnant

A small patch of yellow wall.


But as one critic wrote that in

Vermeer's View of Delft (lent by the museum in The Hague for an exhibition of Dutch painting), under che'egli loved it and wanted to know to perfection, a small patch of yellow wall (which he did not remember) was painted so well you'd think if you looked isolation, a precious work of Chinese art, of a beauty that was enough in itself, Bergotte ate some 'potatoes, left the house and went to the show. Since the first steps he had to go up, he was seized with vertigo. He passed several pictures and had the impression of dryness, and futility of a painting so artificial, it was not worth the currents of air and sun of a palace in Venice or as easy as point of a house by the sea. Eventually, he got to the Vermeer which he remembered as bright, more different from everything familiar, but in which, for the article of the critic, noted for the first time the small characters in blue and the sand was pink, and - finally - the valuable on the tiny patch of yellow wall. The soaring, he did not take his eyes, like a child by a yellow butterfly that wants to capture, from the precious little patch of wall. "That's how I should write, he thought. My last books are too dry, I should draw more layers of color, make my sentence valuable in itself, as that little patch of yellow wall." However, the severity of vertigo not escaped him. In a heavenly balance appeared to him, piled up one of the two plates, and his own life, while the other contained a small patch of wall so well painted in yellow. He felt he had given, recklessly, the first for the second. "I would not still be, they said, The salient fact of this exhibition for the evening papers. "As he repeated:" little patch of yellow wall with roof, little patch of yellow wall ", collapsed on a sofa circular no less abruptly stopped thinking that was at stake his life and, returning to optimism reflected: "It's a simple indigestion, because of those potatoes not cooked enough, it's nothing." A new shot killing, rolled off the couch to the floor, run by all the visitors and attendants . He was dead. Dead forever? Who knows?



Marcel Proust

Pregnancy Vulva Pictuers

How to find out how many drafts can have a corridor

My cell phone sparaflashiante . That blue light that comes and goes and goes and comes back again and continues and continues hypnotizes me. I wish the professor had not noticed.

Prof : "Okay. We make a good general review, who tells me what's the difference between the writings of Plautus and the era gracchiana? "
I : " Mh-mh. "
Prof : "Well, you say you know me? "
I : " What ...? "
Prof : " The difference between the writings of Plautus and those age gracchiana. "
I : '... "
Prof : '... "
I : " Uhm - Er, in the era of the Gracchi there was land reform, no? With Tiberius Gracchus. "
Prof : " Yes, but what's the difference! "
I : Gh.
Prof : "... "
I : " Mh. Ah. Maybe ... Plautus wrote comedies and tragedies chough? "
Prof : '... "
I : The vein is throbbing. Are over.
Prof : '... "
I : '... "
Prof : " The political writings compose choughs. Political ! "
I : " Eh. Exactly. Tragedies. "
Prof : " Out! "

This ambaradam because I'm putting off the appointment. And I should finish Elusive. I do not like. I do not like. What a bore.
I want the fucking chips. Strafritte that oil gutter.
I want to.

Groping In Bus With Clothes

There are many ways to say "je t'aime . Some people do it with a post-it. Or something very similar, since, of course, post-it did not exist, and an ex-count probably would not have to use some robuncola lowered.
And then there is a stable where the reduction cojones.


Cast: Basil , Louis
Fandom: Original
Timeline: French Revolution (more or less)
Rating: Yellow
Genre: Melancholic
Warnings: Slash , What if

Basil back into the house with an overwhelming sense of anxiety that makes the steps and hands psychasthenia neurotic. He looks around and the silence is visible. Loneliness is visible. It 's like the air was thin, and although his lungs are not affected, the particles can be seen wandering in front of his eyes, eschewing any contact with each other.
His shoulders stoop miserably, while dropping along the wall.
He knows that his family is just a few miles away, who has friends, relatives or friends who could only ask for shelter - but has never felt more isolated from the rest of world thinking.
He did not want to leave. Perhaps a part of himself he wanted to, yes, but in the rest of his body climbs a treacherous and insidious pain, not strong enough to bend, but not enough to succeed to ignore it.
did not want him to leave, thinking desperately. He did not want, but what else could he say? What could promise?
what he has to give someone like him as a Louis?
suddenly decides that it would be better if he had not woken up that morning. He should stay in bed, motionless and unconscious, to give them time to leave - not to have regrets for not being able to fortify or even think something that definitely should not be there.
And now, probably live in shame and suffering a failure that has never experienced before.
But he has done well, is not it? That certainly was not the place of Louis: the perishable and frustrated and miserable.
And if he can not go to France, Louis can not stay. So, better way.
Yes So why does it hurt?
Basil gets up from the ground, throw the shirt on the back of a chair in the case and scratched his right shoulder. Just as well, better fill their stomachs.
scurry about in the kitchen, dragging his feet, stomach gurgling and confused in the mind a buzz as he tries not to think, not to hear, not to try .
And then he sees it. Sees .
You see, the devil, and something within him gives way. Yields without the deafening noise that Basil would have suspected. Yields a small, very insignificant thud.
His pride yield, and Basil rinfila in a hurry and rushed out of his shirt.

Barefoot Contessacupcake Mix

When the Post-it becomes a way of life angst about size

When the war (of your choice, good van all, little change so far), the angst, slash and a Mephistophelean companion sclero put us a hand, I certainly do not pull me back.
Will that cause suffering of the poor Christ dell'ispirante, but I just can not give my worst, eh.
And Sky mica jokes, hell. We say that is evil. Let's say that's why I love it.


Characters: Friederich, Morgan
Fandom: Original
Timeline: World War I (more or less)
Rating: Yellow
Genre: Angst, drammatico
Warnings: Pre-slash

I suoi occhi non hanno colore, la guerra gli ha strappato pure quello. Non hanno sfumatura, intensità, non hanno luce. E’ come se la paura li avesse stuprati. Sotto le palpebre strizzate per il dolore non v’è che quello: totalitario, agonizzante terrore. Getta la camicia per terra e si sente svenire, mentre tra le sue labbra nasce un ululato roco, che s’infrange sulle pareti diroccate come una bestemmia. Che lui ormai come si faccia a pregare se l’è dimenticato. E si sente così Young, suddenly, and so helpless, and, hell, can not help but sing a litany of desperate calls home. Try to dab the wound with one hand, and it's just a huge, scary scratch, not the bullet that remained lodged in his skin - she is horrified - but, in his eyes, looks like a strip of the jacket and dark tortured death.

Then he hears footsteps, and snarling sufferer engages in the trachea. The gun is dropped off somewhere, perhaps in the hands of someone else, which may be more useful. It has nothing except boxcutter a Swiss, who knows what in his pants pocket. So trembling, and collects his chin on his chest, hoping that, indeed, this is enough because the earth swallow him.
Morgan can not stand it to wait for the fate before it occurs, because patience is a skill that develops with age, but we fear the birth. Left with a gurgle, face lifts and turns.
's dark all around. It 'a night without stars. It 's a moonless night. It 's just the night, and the only lights are those that go out in the eyes of the soldiers, who will fill cemeteries full of unknown soldiers. It 's just one night, but it's a bad night, one night is frightening, you know that a night of death and pain.
" Who goes there? " exclaimed, with that pure voice that knows how childhood spent among the green hills and grazing animals, which smacks of genuine innocence and fear. It makes no sense talking makes no sense to call it, it makes no sense to ask, and do not even know why I do. Perhaps for that silence hisses death.
A roar rumbles, somewhere, has tormented the ears so that he can not even determine whether far or near, but then a light invades the church, as the condemnation of a pagan god, cruel and ruthless .
And he sees the young man sees his eyes, which are off as his own, but the uniform is a different color. And the folds filthy and torn seams Morgan reads a single sentence: death.
E 'alone is helpless. And, Christ, is so tired, in a way that transcends the fatigue fisica e va a prosciugargli l’anima, semmai ne esista veramente una.

 

Morgan tenta di prendere fiato. Di respirare. Tenta, ma non riesce che ad emettere un rantolo sordo. E' impossibile, come se fosse schiacciato da qualcosa e non riesca a liberarsene.
« Non mi uccidere. » Sussurra. Ed è uno di quei sussurri assordanti, che scivolano lentamente, inermi, tra le labbra, che sono cheti ma profondi, e se t’azzardi ad immergervi hand it remains trapped. It 's a whisper and a prayer and is the only thing I can think of all the men around there, as they fight tooth and nail with his teeth and rolling in the mud and cracks.
His eyes did not dare to sit on the hole of the gun, that's all I can see the gun. It seems a huge gallery. Do not be surprised if, as unfounded, you plainly saw a white light. But the white light can not see, because he does not look at the gun. His eyes dart higher, trying to cling to the eye of the unknown. However, it is dark, you see only the glitter of wet irises and a blurry outline. And then sobbing, for he has overcome the fear, but has not yet come to resignation. Now there's only regret.
Regret for those little things in life, what a take for granted and not known at all, but then, when you're on the brink of the precipice, not even two currencies to pay you the ferry into the river, not the big dreams that torment you. No, the little habits, small joys, small duties. They are small pieces of a full life that fit together perfectly.
" not kill me. " repeats.
Morgan does not know how to die. Sometimes I think they are already dead and that those responsible has run forgot to warn him. Because, really, that can not be life. Because life is smiling and singing and running without a reason. That must be hell. It 's a fire lights that stand on the vault of heaven lethal stained with ink. And she cries and s'impreca and if you run just to chase the last breath.
Morgan thinks he is already dead, annihilated in the church because there are two guys who have forgotten what the future but have a history that hangs over their shoulders like the sword of Damocles.
And the rain is mixed with tears.
Maybe it is dead, think vaguely. Drowned.
sees drop the gun and his chest that follows slow motion and exaggerated. He holds his hand pressed on the side. Feels viscous, greasy and full of life than he is.
not know what to say, do not even know if there is something to be said. So he bends slowly, frustrating the same care that you use in front of a wild beast, and picks up his shirt.
felt foolish in trying to medicate when death is a few feet from him. He had strength, laugh at himself. But it is exhausted and it does not, however, looks at his shirt and he breaks down. Long strips irregular, like the shreds of his life.

21461 Traffic Violation Ticket

My mother and I often watch TV together - maybe because I have some faint pretense of social life, or perhaps because my mother questionable taste and I am unfortunately with ears and eyes .
E 'was therefore with some misgivings that I sat on the couch with her and I got a shield with a cushion in case the popcorn ended with the dodge tv. All
roughly quiet, my mother is even managed to silence for five minutes in a row, the film hints slash and the plot was not bad.
course, could not end like this.

Mater: " you are unfamiliar with this actor? "I
: " Oh. Yes, but of course! And 'the actor who makes Voldemort. "
Mater: " 's where I'd seen! He looked like us. Same chin, same nose - "
Me: " Yes, mother, some nose. Why, the bright foliage no, eh? "
Mater: " ...? "
Me: " Mom, Voldemort did not have a nose! "
Mater: " ... "
Me: " ... "
Mater: " Shut up you, you've never been a physiognomy. "

I inherited his genes, yes. Compatitemi.