Can You Highlight Short Hair

Democrat Moving

is a nice word Democrat. It is a beautiful word. Voice of the People. Not the voice of the people. No. Voice of the People. Me, a democrat, I am voice of the people. A. Among others. Nothing less. Nothing more. On one condition. An express condition. A thousand and one condition. A condition that is apparent, which may show no simplification process: the voice that is mine and I can expect in return an echo of all those to which it is mixed, opposed, in a set where it may be unrecognizable, but in a set also, where I know I could still recognize some of the society in which I aspire to live. Me. But I also like millions of others. And not in the spirit in which reverse the aspirations of millions of others should refer to me. In my own aspirations.
You can not be democracy without modesty. It would be fashionable to rail against a call to modesty. Would it only under a misunderstanding which suggests that sovereignty belongs to the people, it is up to each and everyone, so that every Democrat is a sovereign. And because we put the idea of modesty in many forms of reductive thinking, opinion, choice, commitment. What, in my opinion, it would be wrong. It is a common symptom, which has grown alarmingly in recent years, indicating a democracy mirrors, as in many other areas in our societies today, we look for mirrors, returns on itself, self-images, a world of self. Much use of evidence of existence in relation to what we eventually estimate that basically use would be a democratic expression that healthier exhibition on a TV set or compensatory consumerism. While these are the same examples brought by the media and industry, encouraged by the desire to ad networks, who were to use self-expression in all the thickness of the democratic space. It is through these examples that has found itself promoted a sovereign, including all sorts of false speech stirred by the spectacle of demagoguery, intend to make a conscious self-assumed, assumed knowledge, supposedly informed. A self that ultimately has no other reason to proliferate in this condition misleading as to respond to an offer policy itself has long been reduced to objects of marketing directed to clients that it is sufficient to sell packaging believe in doing only what it contains. Ready to explain, in retrospect, after the election, why he does not what was promised.
was accustomed, and rightly, to denounce another way, without visible certainly become caricatured the failure of democracy in our societies. This is the collusion of interests between the political and economic sphere. The second is deemed to dominate the first, to dictate any action in his favor, and never leave it to him that contain the whole office in the state as satisfactory as possible, often the only way the police and righteousness, that the market system imposed by the strongest players in the economy can prosper. This, of course, without these players are never confronted with the choice more or less real or realizable that should be responsible for issuing the suffrage of the people.
But there is another democratic dysfunction, order equally important: it comes from another league, unspoken, unexpressed, which is that every citizen, every citizen has delivered the maintenance of his being Democrat looking out of a communicational it returns as a mirror ball in a nightclub, where a thousand reflections each, everyone can find his own, feed, complacent, believe, and perhaps hope . This leads to distorted views, protean, including personnel policy moves, unfortunately with ease, or attempts to interfere with various intentions, a different offer, or purported to be.
Are there any other prospects, if we admit that these two principles of fatal collusion persist, that status and its representation, responsible for policing and justice, pouring in more authority and more control, or a people in any renewal requirement with the democratic spirit.
That is, at the same time seeking solutions to the immense problems of the day, answers to serious questions posed by the near or distant future, a sort of reset the spirit Democrat in the person of the citizen and the citizen. Out of suspicion pointing
the vagaries of consensus as threats to the abrasive nature of the debate, being a democrat is neither renounce the balance of power, nor abdicate its beliefs, nor deny his dreams, his ideals, his utopia. Being
Democrat is all about giving up the need, or the illusion of being represented in his person by his own strength, his inner conviction, his singular dream.
Why does it seems so difficult to talk about being a democrat, and why it gives me the same impression of not being able to transmit only evidence?
There are many characters that form a human person, and that no one inherits at birth. Being a Democrat is.
lack of education, lack of a certain culture, lack of early use, and lack a certain awareness, being a democrat does not claim that he, not intended all or part of his opinion that himself, cares best in the second part of the satisfaction of others and still subject to either that of its nearest neighbors opinion, at worst does not experience any interest. The principle to ensure that enough what it is, in situation or in possession, it is first necessary that all so firmly hold office, is as far from him that the fate of any fragment of the society which it seems that the future should in no way affect the project or tranquility. And this especially if some ill-intentioned political speeches offered him the means to protect parts of society which he easily persuaded that the interests have nothing to do with his, or even that it would be harmful to its comfort . Unless it flatters him in possible instincts which should not be useful to recall that their proliferation produced in the last century, and still produces
Being Democrat is a job. Work itself. He has this in common with that required freedom. I mean the freedom of conscience. Before interviewing
freedom, I ask my freedom. And when I see that I can win both inside of me when I realize that by means of my mind, my imagination, my sensibility, as I think having fed well incompletely and many other characters associated with them, I have and I am a world so vast that it is sometimes even disarming, I have no need to seek out beyond what I have to get to just keep my necessities, so as to have enough will always have someone else in is less.
These things fall out of who knows what sky? Obviously not.
It is being built. Throughout a teaching worthy of the name. Through a private practice in which any citizen, every citizen needs to follow. Not necessarily dedicate themselves whole, whole. But, having at the minimum, regular care not to be indifferent. It would be a step forward.
In the present state of things the first political courage of a genuine concern for democracy must be to question the people on that subject. Before anyone else. Engaging
explicitly be a Democrat in each, in everyone.

Procedures To Make Insecticides

Anthemios

On Track For hieratic
variegated green water in front
Anthemios
blue eyes turned into anchors
Majesty impassive and silent

Austin entered the city
Descending locks.

Sarcophagus titan
In its steel hull
Slippery slowly towards the main stairs

Holding his motorcade
the outskirts of the machines arrived
Anthemios
the gates reach the top.

The officiant at the controls
Gesture and not
Off Mask hours
And
feeling out of place in his mere ritual without soul

ordered consoles
trade waters.

Anthemios both
The grave and the deceased
Just fire a star And ashes
colossal

And Always having reigned reigning forever
Waiting
god lulled the edge of the passage.

At her feet At the
Two stern
servile black slaves
Preparing mooring lines at the bow
However
Before the August front
heavily
opened doors upstream. Some people advised


Nobles Funeral
discoveries heads
mine afflicted
Grief retained
Sub necks bent
watched in quiet mourning
A marvel.

Anthemios
contained in the walls of the airlock doors
upstream
closing their doors
Servants shameful
Whether
crowded pens and their dark office in Lester
Agile care. The officiating

keeper worthy and indifferent

On another panel
activating maneuvers
In contemplation

From the ceremony releasing the waters mounted
To reach the bottom.

Anthemios
or legend of a prince deplored
Seared in sleep
At any other scary
Beautiful sun based

Sentenced to darkness I saw you leaping
In the hold funeral.

everywhere by the looks
In
solemnity in the air sorry
floating on your grave Your gracious remembrance

To everyone
immanent punishment
spread His sacred offering.

Even more death
A little farther
A little colder
From your metal bed
And me a little poorer
And me a bit shorter
I saw the doors open
On lower reach.

slaves standing
Powerful and dedicated
Their faces severe
Their silhouette proud
Containing soldiers
Their fate mortuary
tended toward the horizon
Their icy mistrust.

On Track For hieratic
variegated green waters
Anthemios
leaving the airlock walls soaked Its unfortunate secret

Sealed in its long sides
Commit sadly
Towards the next lock.


high in the sky A pale light in the clouds
Noyant
His modest
clarity the day in reverence
From a steamy sun
Sema gold leaf
On iridescent waters.

Hearts hills moved
Looking to train your
already following
Thinking Of your ultimate trip
patient assistance
A itself made
Looked Anthemios
Move destiny.

on your face And I
A grace Posing the imaginary invisible

a tribute distraught
Keeping your passage
A mysterious dream I saw you
Anthemios
Join infinity.

Ccie Salary In India 2010

Under the cloak

I hear the black smoke from which shines carat purple oxide, a cry between two rocks in the basement of the sky. Thus it may be and that I know. And also that it is rare to hear. Apparat tiny embedded in the noise. Seeming to shine, the surface is a beacon that lights up inside, hesitating between the fate of an insignificant grain of quartz Common caught in the mass of a pavement, and the elevation in the air to attract other eyes, other plays, others this same world, he paces in explorer undecided, won by the vain wear , lost the childlike faith. It measures the infinite past and those who come full of stammering lips, looks surprised to see it happen. See us. And me too, perhaps.
He goes, he comes, he goes. Transparency in the fair shy of confabulations. It came and went, went, unavoidable absence. He sweats the dead as objects evolved into uselessness by the hardness of the body unmoved. And the line he will advance his lean agile cursor among the sentences without knowing that humans are in the streets. Volte face of palpable clashes, hugs, and hermetic seals itself only obscene.
It is unrecognizable. Wall decal. Indigent. Unaddressed. He lives at the station buffet. Against the offense of funeral monuments no one used his journey, having disappeared without trace and persistent in training apprentices live when they will stow their skiff serious anxiety. So that is uncertain to the edge of losing everything. I am this coat that covers her hip and carried away like a locomotive mechanism. His taxi is waiting for a ride. Often tight fist on the reins of his breath.
I drink alcohol on days when there is nothing. Where its ultimate appearance is a disappearance. Where he smells the banality of someone who watches the time of his train. Time for a controlled departure from the curious quirks of necessity. It is long, long sublimely, tide, filling the glass hall where everything sounds like a thousand tangled disorders watchmakers vent. He drinks glasses of long strokes and he commands the waters drown the silence he invented the incessant clash of fossil tribulations.
At destination, he gets up, leaves his palace, and this becomes incapable of being that which seeks to tell not to cross the middle of the days and nights naked sun that toy-attired.
as I hear murmurs, eyes puffy sponge. With his clerk his titles of nobility and its insoluble calls without following the reign of pain are discharged.
Everything is still an animal, I think I knew, an animal that we wilt. An animal in the mirror degraded. We kill an animal. We open. That we cut. We devour. We grind. We attach. That we torture. We take a lead. That we cherish. We buy. We worship. We even made gods and masters. Human
cursed flesh air and prisoner of his heavy frame, he insists in a spiral around the rock to fluid environments and leads to the indifferent material in the center of the plant to return the vacuum. That no profession. Just to keep. If only a clarification. Sometimes. Because everything is black. To be determined, if not to see red. Heart. Or bleed.
He knows things that the worst murderers do not. He understands that love forget. At the windows, if any, supported or anywhere, watching the spectacle, he never mind anything. He listens. The eternal complaint of the walls. The Business Round. The museum of history while standing around, and still nothing. A spark in the cosmos. And tomorrow against another. And anyway vows unresolved championships rotten. Vices combatants. By the unique power of the jaws that are disgusting and stomach desire and know fun, and the complaint, and the round. He tells
. He even graze the complaint of his palm and guess the round when hungry. And if it is we want to recognize. Was invited. He speaks. We would like to explain. They are gathering. We press. At best we begin to hope without knowing, at worst, not knowing, we start to believe. If he stays it will be embalmed in which incense is bathed names one does twinkle. We dare
little for him. He knows. He fled. It follows the humble to the next level with the precipice. And love here and there that accompanies it. Boundary consolation. And some congeners that swarm over the fences jets sharp prickles angry and desperate. Electric buffet bites in the kidneys and straighten a laugh accomplice. We could then meet in the paddock for three or four words written on the back white pacts betrayed. Betrayed a thousand times. Written for be.
He speaks. I see his isolated murmur audible in the fog. I am, unknown brother. Brother ignored. There he was already considered the cradle. His gaze falling like to tell me who I was. No. That it could be that I am. No. That I might be. No. It said nothing. I think he had simply want to reassure me. That he too had seen the sea before.
He saw the sea was not yet born. Almost nothing was. As a spell of liquid jade. Magma memory behind folds multiplied, that an innocent trip was attached to his shoulders. It does nothing to become. It's like that's all. It had happened. And to survive everything should be an unbearable lightness. On the enigmatic detachment. Dream, but you're just a breath. Crown or rag. He was born
singing waves. But that does not mean much. Tomorrow it will be over soon. Where in a few hundred seasons. So what you have whispered other in whispers perhaps. In this same song they can already hear it.
I learned that sleep. Times we must let him sleep. Periods threats foreign skin. On its brightness returns indexed to fury. And be carried into the ocean storm. And duller than this echo that some believe hold a god.
I found him, curled in the corner of a room in an abandoned house. It emanated from him again, petrol-scented acids, evidence of a thoughtful insistence.
There is no choice: the animal is still, in some cases, as if it never existed. Yet
not get tired, I've managed to tell me, even if the filings of some never-ending glow during absurd sides of times in turmoil, falling cold powder in the back of our steps. Sowing and often a sterile ryegrass.
is a question mark. He does not say his name. Nor whence he is. Or where it went.
Recently I installed a cafe in a railway station. It was anywhere I think I remember. On the seat beside me there was a coat. Apparently abandoned. I asked the waiter when I gave him my order. He briefly describes a man who had one or two hours earlier and who had surely been forgotten. I asked him to tell me about the man. I told him that I knew and I recognized the cloak. I asked the boy if he saw no harm in what I relate myself to the owner. The boy had a wry expression and said no, it does not pose a problem.
Since I have this coat in my house.

8 Month Old Daughter Chesty Cough

Handbag

I see you coming, (I know you!), No, it will not be any question of a former first lady of France best known for its yellow pieces for integrity of her husband.
It will be just about the utensil which has been regularly his fetish, not to mention his nin-nin, his security blanket.
And this utensil as being not his, but as it is universal, ubiquitous, both the before, during, (dare I say), and after a so alpha and omega, a brief metaphysical.
Prime useful approximation, before leaving the purse, they do not wear one at a time when they are most often two shoes, and this despite the obvious connection between the first neighborhood and seconds, with or without heels, great neighborhood on the number of copies available in six or seven cabinets or closets, and on the diversity of models that s'éventaillent more sober than the foil, the uglier than elegant, the most unlikely to ever more uncertain, the most eccentric practice at least, from the tiniest to the largest of the more ridiculous than ridiculous .... Coordinated with the shoes, then. They
, you guessed it, because you are very insightful, it is women, of course, not locusts, do not confuse. Women
we will here sometimes in the singular because it is common it is singular. We consider in fact much less than its congeners outside dingdongs able to get together in packs, beer mind set on the edge of various events Virilio-martialo-sports.
Though ambition here and there to experience it, knowing as she competes with the male he may need more frequent down as up.
It is a fact that the woman, whose recent research tells us that it arises most often in leather in a flower, wrestling, and often rightly, to become the equals of men. It should be wary anyway. There is another fact that certain rights, including recent findings tell us that arises in a more V-6 engine or a football than a cabbage, do not struggle to become equal to the woman. Question: wearing the handbag would it not the main cause. It is possible ... (And he may be wrong.)
While timid or bold fashion trends have made the bill a kind of object, become common to many men who might suggest that 'This is an equivalent of the handbag of the woman. Alas, alas, three times, the poor are light years of what a handbag.
There is no exhaustive list of what you can find in a woman's handbag. This explains why no gospel, no Koran or other bestsellers testostéronien does the subject. Tangible sign of the presence of farewells. And this time it's final.
With a share in a sense and sometimes rather cheeky curiosity, and partly of a hard-won trust from a lot of women, loitering near or already gone, I happened to access many handbag.
At the option of inventories, this is the most common.
A compact, a magazine, a stick of lipstick, two or three guards in case the lunar event, tissues for colds or flu in love, a gun for a husband or husband's mistress or wife of lover or mistress of another lover, pictures of children credit cards, paper, pens, sweets, cigarettes, lighters, breeches parts, a bag of arsenic, seals for migraines, perfume, a silver spoon in a large hotel, an address book, phone Mobile, a plan of Valparaiso, a novel, brass knuckles, a ball of twine, casino chips, a shoe heel, a silk scarf, a dog collar, some flower petals, post-it with Small pieces of various notes, incense cones, bunches of keys, USB keys, shells, feathers, jewels, stones, owls, sub, flight times and train for hours appointment, a roll of scotch, a ball of hash, an alliance, a bottle of scotch, the mascara, a checkbook, a pair of sunglasses, an umbrella, a pair of scissors, nail polish, a or two snacks, a few tea bags, tea of sweeteners, a golden pill, a rabbit's foot, a wig, one fish, a few teeth, a few strands of hair, or dynamite, a sex toy, a former communicant medal, an old card a leftist political party, condoms, a jade egg, a bean galette, a penknife, a date stamp, a poem, postcards, tickets used for the Opera, mirrors, rope jumping, balls, tubes of skin creams, a small stuffed toy, a tie or two ... and no raccoon.
No raccoon. I've never seen a raccoon in a handbag woman.
I'm sure there are none. Never.
There are certainly things that I have not seen is true. That does not mean they are not. There are things visible, understandable, in a woman's handbag. And there are obviously invisible. But not
raccoon: the women is not in futility. She pretends that's all.
Knowing me as I know the brothers, claim personal double-sided, I would not be surprised to learn that found in the paraphernalia of their constant travel as a purse is primarily a travel bag So we can find a compartment for Transsiberian. Or a giraffe. Or castanets. Probably love letters from Prince Charming idiots or logging sensitive. Or girlfriends undressed. Or left to live abroad in South America. Ruffled tutus. Sentences of heart in empty flasks. Stories to tell in white ones. Evenings princesses on ships bound. Cries of revolt. Genealogies of sirens. Plots. Corsets. Caps to twelve degrees. Address a bookmaker. Microphones. Plans investigations. Contact detectives. Shrunken heads of rivals. Jewels in male jars of formalin. Pacific sofas. Ostriches. Panther paws. Mothers powder. Horses. Docks. Romantic movies that no man has managed to turn. Pianos.
We must also find the Louise Michel and de la Rosa Luxembourg.
can unfortunately also meet the Margaret Thatcher or Paris Hilton: So some women go beyond some men, alas, alas, three times ... That way we're tied. In
disturbances can be observed in the troubled times we are experiencing, it is remarkable that some women appear to quit wearing the handbag. It certainly a diversion. Also strange that some are also a handbag, and just as every day, another bag, sometimes larger, as inflation of mystery. So where is she still part nowhere.
Note also that the handbag itself is used as a weapon used in many defense cases, certainly, but also attack. Taking into account the average content of the utensil, one trembles at the thought that next war based on such a potential for mass destruction. I was wondering
not later that a few minutes ago, wondering myself through torture of the razor, as to how to complete this article, and who have never attended a funeral of one of our sisters, if a woman was buried with her handbag. I think the answer is no.
Imagine if heaven exists so furious that his gun from his bag when passing over the counter. Certainly it would moult extenuating circumstances, but go telling that to the Vatican where all the guys dressed in robes, all wearing funny hats, and no purse!

Sfuffleboard Table Sand

The Road - Cormac McCarthy

is written with a scalpel to produce silverware, but look no rubies, sapphires or: there is none. If jewel it infinitely yac'est piece gray, rusted, burned, frozen: this is a terrible ornament devastated universe. Everything is burned. Absolutely everything. We will not know exactly why. Not really. One may suspect something but there are still several possibilities. And we understand as much as this is not what matters. Like when it's done is done. There is no return on that. There will be live in what remains and there is nothing left. Rain. Snow. Cold. Ash. Wind. Of barbarism.
The road on which advance a father and son. The man and the boy.
There are good books. It there are fine. Old. There are sacred books.
And there are sacred books.
That's what I thought this book after finishing it. Not immediately. Because I did not know immediately what to do. Me first it was necessary freedom to drive, drill the scene of the latest pages, so little of the nutrient of the latest words, a tiny hole compass to imagine what could be filtered, so a thin needle clarity, for breakfast. Who survives.

"He stopped and leaned against the cart and then stopped and continued small turned and the man looked up and saw him crying on the road standing there looking at him from the depths of who knows what unimaginable future, glittering in the desert like a tabernacle. "

We often talk about the aridity of writing. Its count. Here we are with this novel. And yet everything seems to draw them like an inverted world, the landscapes in which all life has disappeared. Except that of others, hopelessly lost, or carried into clans ragged income below any civilization. Belief.
This is not a novel to me seemed to allow me to raise myself in the sense that a book be little edifying. It is a book that referred me to my abyss as we rarely feels pushed, you rarely ordered to do so, there is rarely required at this point.

"When he woke in the woods in the dark and cold of the night he held out his hand to touch the child sleeping beside him. The dark nights beyond darkness and the days more gray each day than before. As the assault of an indescribable cold glaucoma dimming the world under his pillow. At each precious breath raised his hand and fall gently. He pushed the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking clothes and blankets and looked toward the east in search of a light but there was none. "

I heard that people had not returned to reading this book. It does not unthinkable to me. Whether he is a real fear, real fear that Apocalypse happens, abolishing the future, produced by the human or the cosmos emerged. Let the child no longer enough, in the heart of the heart of a disaster, to testify at a prior time always pass, always to live, still live. Whatever happens. And if given the tenuous thread of destiny last.

Roman philosophy. Metaphorical novel. Roman dish. I have felt surrounded the area where the question of good and evil tightens any event survival. As well to get something to eat to maintain that fire. The only element, water is tainted, poisoned air and barren land, persists and can not yet imagine that deep in the hollow body and afraid of humans and small. Would it matter that the virtues of a good and a bad illusory contours sometimes imprecise and sometimes the most brutal forms.

"The world is contracting around a core of raw separable entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things that were thought to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How many had already disappeared? The sacred idiom cut its references and consequently its reality. Retreating as something that tries to preserve its heat. To disappear forever when the time comes. "

A book of what remains when everything was abandoned in the destruction. Where in wave after wave of the final contours of humanity, with its limits to life, its limits on the threshold of death, a kind of residual choice, animal interference, low capacity to exist even beyond the pure physiological needs, remaining capacity, which is vital to the atom, to decide how far you go. And where will it stop.

A book without strength and softness. Vintage. A prehistory. Nakedness after the fall of millions of queries accessories. And the essence of an invisible design so you can measure that all existence contains anyway.
With what I read yet since I've read: the only voice we hear mostly. That of man and the little one.
Then at the end of the small with the other man, whether he will follow as the father died.

"How can I be sure that you are part of the Gentiles?
You can not be sure. It is a risk that you should take.
Do you carry the fire?
If I wear anything?
Fire.
You're not a little deranged, right?
No.
Just a little.
Yeah.
Ca nothing.
Then you wearing?
What? If there is fire?
Yes.
Yeah. We carry the fire.
you have children?
Yes.
You have a little boy?
was a boy and a girl.
How old is he?
About your age. Maybe a little more.
And you have not eaten.
No.
You do not eat people?
No. We do not eat people.
And I come with you?
Yes. You can.
Okay then.
Okay. "

A book without end. Unresolved. In this, I think, yes, a sacred book.