Tech Deck Park Blueprint

It has been twenty of the seventy nights away. On the line have lost sleep. Every time a few minutes before sunrise and feel grateful for the hour drive slight rotation of the Earth. Sometimes, early in the dimly lit classroom of a village feel bell shaken Plath above you, as if it were to fall and let you in, breathe through your eyes, look for the air movements of fish. Then it is easy to try to return to the mother, looking in the hallways and the smell of hot iron and a sweeping gesture of folding sheets. Saying that come with fever and cold on the street and sit by day, his feet against the stove, and repeating like a mantra in unfamiliar languages \u200b\u200b(the mother does not know) that this winter is always raining. Sleep there, knowing that sleep was going away just because the sounds from outside and feel the beat but the internal organs warm. For the first time in as many nights the only true deep sleep with their feet on the stove and slowly falling background noise in the house, the smell of the house, the familiar melody of the instruments of the house.

Fucibet Can I Put On Spot

We believed blindly

indestructible quality of the house. We knew things were made "wonderful, like you and me" and the other things that were unbreakable sides: the land, the fruit, the river, really. But now we have come together into a tailspin. Or the house collapses and we are in yet. We tried to stop the ruin with the force of bodies. But no. Not enough to alleviate the irreducible crack advancing in their walls without remedy, but now - because it's too late - we can stop it. We are alive five bodies surrounded by rubble. Or dead, or the rubble is the flesh and the house does not exist. After losing the final structure of the house we have also lost the notion of truth. The love of small things. The precise movement of the tongue sealing a cigarette. Are irreversibly dead plants on the porch. The water is not clean and the miracle used to be fertile. It is not just another annoyance, the constant repetition of the rain on building materials without form, lots of tile and cement stack without grace in the mud. Scandinavia is a name that no longer exist, that ever uttered, even now we are alone, leaning against the wall, trying to believe that the house there, above us still, that has not fallen yet and that we, the five we are still inside.