Skip alleys of Paris, Seine along their dark eddies gold everywhere breathe the gas that takes you and carries you and a dream, dream, there is the word.
I dream, I dream. The Louvre stands as a ghostly vision as he demonstrates the excessiveness, the demagoguery of a few handfuls of men. And be there, amongst the gardens of the Carrousel, keep the eyes a wooded landscape, fresh, exuding luxury, idleness, as far as imposing prestige and do nothing if not contemplate any scents, rumors alienable in Paris there believe Finally, the owner of this palace, but also possessed the power that once residents of the premises. I daydream at reviving the philosophy of time, then the light period succeeding the dramaturgical we know only too well because she has raised the pride of our nation. Louis I, my subjects them or my guests, I will. Being alone maker of this unique assured of the nonexistence of God, since God is me, sweet delusion of invulnerability, greater expression of stupidity.
I dream, I think. That in my size I'm not above a grain sand. That without my conscience around the world I have nothing to envy to the animal. Devil! I am animal, the herd so brilliantly portrayed by prehistoric Piestre this Cain oil on canvas paintings from the refined, highly civilized Orsay, these men and women, beautiful as the old, the mother as much as his cherubs on the stretcher frames, the couple and slaves, can not you see it in any draft of an organized society? The return of the hunt, hunting what? Primary accomplishment of the most basic needs. And this band hierarchical! How many people have lived and unless we deign to reconsider their memory? Wild beasts, then, what have I to the animal except those original requirements, these reflexes such instinct, this common source, in fact? What do these men before in history so that we looked similar to the demonic creatures of myth?
I dream that I dream I think. If just writing to tell you about me that I am no animal, either: much I am no animal. Yet! ah! But I feel deep in my heart a spirit, a force that shakes violently. A scourge that stubbornly silent since the investigation first. I tremble, I sweat, I cried and my heart and my roof break. Skip alleys of Paris, along with their brown Seine whirlpool gold everywhere breathe the gas that will afflict you and whistles and a dream, go to the origin of the world , black renieurs our eyes, hirsute by what is the hidden obstinately. Scream, run, deafen herself pulse pounding at the temples, out of breath air blank effort essential to the seething heat the skin pores, the language originally drowned in saliva tasty and disturb the landscape through the lacrimal wind ... I think of my destination, I dream my prey future, I think of my hunting.
I thought I was dreaming that I was thinking sweet utopia ... The freedom of not having to do what we must do.
I thought I was dreaming that I was thinking about a sweet utopia, the nightmare of our fathers thinkers. Animal or not, my mind is different, I note, for his insubordination, and all his kind. I walked on my knees in the morning, got up on two for the zenith, before they attend a show third. However with bipedalism divine, my head as the sun approached me that I am repeatedly severely burned. If the student who thought it exerts in the beheading, why do we still believe?
For the writings of Plato we learned not to design for real the illusions of the world. Nevertheless, our pride we did by diving into the history as Greek repugnant lie and we have taken for real materialism of the intellectual, and that is what we will lose.
I dream, I dream. The Louvre stands as a ghostly vision as he demonstrates the excessiveness, the demagoguery of a few handfuls of men. And be there, amongst the gardens of the Carrousel, keep the eyes a wooded landscape, fresh, exuding luxury, idleness, as far as imposing prestige and do nothing if not contemplate any scents, rumors alienable in Paris there believe Finally, the owner of this palace, but also possessed the power that once residents of the premises. I daydream at reviving the philosophy of time, then the light period succeeding the dramaturgical we know only too well because she has raised the pride of our nation. Louis I, my subjects them or my guests, I will. Being alone maker of this unique assured of the nonexistence of God, since God is me, sweet delusion of invulnerability, greater expression of stupidity.
I dream, I think. That in my size I'm not above a grain sand. That without my conscience around the world I have nothing to envy to the animal. Devil! I am animal, the herd so brilliantly portrayed by prehistoric Piestre this Cain oil on canvas paintings from the refined, highly civilized Orsay, these men and women, beautiful as the old, the mother as much as his cherubs on the stretcher frames, the couple and slaves, can not you see it in any draft of an organized society? The return of the hunt, hunting what? Primary accomplishment of the most basic needs. And this band hierarchical! How many people have lived and unless we deign to reconsider their memory? Wild beasts, then, what have I to the animal except those original requirements, these reflexes such instinct, this common source, in fact? What do these men before in history so that we looked similar to the demonic creatures of myth?
I dream that I dream I think. If just writing to tell you about me that I am no animal, either: much I am no animal. Yet! ah! But I feel deep in my heart a spirit, a force that shakes violently. A scourge that stubbornly silent since the investigation first. I tremble, I sweat, I cried and my heart and my roof break. Skip alleys of Paris, along with their brown Seine whirlpool gold everywhere breathe the gas that will afflict you and whistles and a dream, go to the origin of the world , black renieurs our eyes, hirsute by what is the hidden obstinately. Scream, run, deafen herself pulse pounding at the temples, out of breath air blank effort essential to the seething heat the skin pores, the language originally drowned in saliva tasty and disturb the landscape through the lacrimal wind ... I think of my destination, I dream my prey future, I think of my hunting.
I thought I was dreaming that I was thinking sweet utopia ... The freedom of not having to do what we must do.
I thought I was dreaming that I was thinking about a sweet utopia, the nightmare of our fathers thinkers. Animal or not, my mind is different, I note, for his insubordination, and all his kind. I walked on my knees in the morning, got up on two for the zenith, before they attend a show third. However with bipedalism divine, my head as the sun approached me that I am repeatedly severely burned. If the student who thought it exerts in the beheading, why do we still believe?
For the writings of Plato we learned not to design for real the illusions of the world. Nevertheless, our pride we did by diving into the history as Greek repugnant lie and we have taken for real materialism of the intellectual, and that is what we will lose.
Journal , Sebastian Asran Zala Charles
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