His body and his heart had been dissolved. He floated among the particles of water vapor suspended in the air. He felt neither his hands nor his feet, as if someone had stolen him. Yet he could still feel his heart that he had himself torn. Yes, he quivered to and fro between two molecules of hydrogen dioxide, all its members scattered. And he sought.
His path could already be defined as not being it. Him, anyway, did not see much, do not apprehensive in any way. He just wandered up to the death because he was quiet in the solitude of a sudden not be summed up as such, what constitutes the individual. Complacency ... This is not laziness, it's complacency, which is the mother of vice! A pale impaled ... He thought himself flayed alive, there he was. Blood, blood ostentatious incensing the supposed infernal censors.
The ice is near guessed, even before his eyes. The polar wind ... From whence he came, he did not seem so cold he did not deleterious. As for where he went, he cared little. Love, death, perhaps, is where all the uncertainty of life. Know or think or believe to know, what is the essence? He knew nothing. He had read Descartes and acceded to the justification of a ergo sum by Cogito of Dubito . But after all, he was so sure he was wondering now doubt if he really doubted, so he was. Too many embellishments he was fired.
the moment he lay there in the dark over a mass funeral for only allies with his heart, somewhere outside him, a stranger, ice and existential doubt. Ah! As the world once was beautiful! As he had ugly! So much the man at the end he disappears, he goes, down it, or he goes come, why bother? What to do with this heart nicked, useless and smelly?
It was hard to come together as it was dispersed, thin was not to focus on its own. Recover the fragments lying on the surface of a tarnished former secretary ... He would have liked to read again the story of his life. It would have snubbed once again by secret lean work he had done. Finally, he would have ever written, probably in vain. Principe de Ronsard.
For the nothingness of man is his ceaseless uncertainty at every attempt to assert the objection is raised, and nothing is gained, not even life. I would gladly have drunk the last time the coffee place Cambronne.
His path could already be defined as not being it. Him, anyway, did not see much, do not apprehensive in any way. He just wandered up to the death because he was quiet in the solitude of a sudden not be summed up as such, what constitutes the individual. Complacency ... This is not laziness, it's complacency, which is the mother of vice! A pale impaled ... He thought himself flayed alive, there he was. Blood, blood ostentatious incensing the supposed infernal censors.
The ice is near guessed, even before his eyes. The polar wind ... From whence he came, he did not seem so cold he did not deleterious. As for where he went, he cared little. Love, death, perhaps, is where all the uncertainty of life. Know or think or believe to know, what is the essence? He knew nothing. He had read Descartes and acceded to the justification of a ergo sum by Cogito of Dubito . But after all, he was so sure he was wondering now doubt if he really doubted, so he was. Too many embellishments he was fired.
the moment he lay there in the dark over a mass funeral for only allies with his heart, somewhere outside him, a stranger, ice and existential doubt. Ah! As the world once was beautiful! As he had ugly! So much the man at the end he disappears, he goes, down it, or he goes come, why bother? What to do with this heart nicked, useless and smelly?
It was hard to come together as it was dispersed, thin was not to focus on its own. Recover the fragments lying on the surface of a tarnished former secretary ... He would have liked to read again the story of his life. It would have snubbed once again by secret lean work he had done. Finally, he would have ever written, probably in vain. Principe de Ronsard.
For the nothingness of man is his ceaseless uncertainty at every attempt to assert the objection is raised, and nothing is gained, not even life. I would gladly have drunk the last time the coffee place Cambronne.
Journal , Sebastian Asran Zala Charles
