Ikusa Otome Suvia Vidio

Playing in hell

heat climbs annoying skin like ants biting and puffing and cursing and shouting. Perspiration slides under the clothes like slugs delinquent and overweight. The whispers are twisted in the air, asking how long. The eyes rest on the three confused men who do not even manage to repair the air conditioning in the office.

not a window be opened. We are more than ever, stuck in hell.

terrifies me. I dread to breathe the breath of others here. I do not want to come into me what was inside the big spam. His shirt size

infinite boasts a gallery abstract art signed by the sweat. Dawns on her forehead in his agony liquid heat intolerance. It takes long and desperate gulps of cold water. His intense eyes and pray silently to the three maintenance men. And wait.

I see myself reflected in him. But in a slimming mirror.

There is nothing to distract from this. I've seen any page. Chatted and any tinkering. My manager sent me an email. Do not want to work. He has gone to work from home with air conditioning nailed to 19 degrees not too encouraged me to take care of it.

I can not take it anymore.

To me I love to read and write, if I had to rescue a word, a word, a word which could lead to any shipwreck, even to this hell, that word would play. The game has charm, no kindness, no passion, no creation, no surprise, no subtlety, no dialogue, no maturity, no communion with what is and what it wants to be.

I look at my desk. I stop at toys that populate it. Grab one. I go to the kitchen. Filled it with water. I return to my desk. I'm sorry. I get in engaged in the company's internal chat. I send a mail to my manager saying I'm trabadísimo in a call with a client. That forgiveness does not explain more but this is a mess to speak and write at a time. What if someone else can be ordered.

I open a word. And pulled the toy keyboard. The toy is that bird with which the obese Homer Simpson ticked y. I leave typing. So do not see the screen saver. So you see I'm not away. So do not assume that I went to the square back to get ice cream.

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How to tell if your coworker is a zombie

1. Walking awkward.
2. Smells funny.
3. You stare.
4. Is not alive.
5. Delivers a unique sound.
6. His eating habits are questionable.
7. Clearly, not having sex.
8. His breath is reprehensible.
9. Want to kill literally or metaphorically.
10. Not a good conversationalist.

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The possibility of a home

Father Ted, a lovely Irish program, is located on an island. Fiction does not invent. Does not reflect reality. The constructs.
So there is a small island lost somewhere in the world where live innocence, violence, absurdity, acidity and tenderness, which lurks everywhere, on tiptoe, the whiff of home.
The lonely sea and wrap up the little island. No loneliness of one who is bogged down and shut itself up monoliths of closeness and distance, love and hatred, always totalitarian, always resentful. No. surrounds this small island solitude of sailing every night playing with the stars and with huge sea.
The luxury is alien, so there is no landlord has not reached its shores. Even the weather has escaped, as perhaps it has done every island. No rain on it impositions, anguish, madness and needs monsoon elsewhere. When mist-anywhere-do is impervious to the subtle Irish charm. The people there
is not landscape. Every relationship, lovers or arch, with all the intermediate range, holds a charm so rare and delicate and profound: they are buddies.
is a beacon, the little island. Is the possibility of a home for all who feel that do not belong. It is a shelter for those who tore us to live in a hut in a forest in Ushuaia to the sea at the end of the world, snow and mountains, or those who hurt us not eat breakfast every morning in that house on the coast last Svalbard, and to all households in the middle.
is a bandage, the little island, a bandage to the stabbing of unfulfilled desires.
is, again, a beacon. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm, receiving us and making us feel at home, giving us shelter, something to drink and eat and when we recovered, we are thrown back to sea. We look here in the storm, like a father watching his son ride a bike, encouraging us to find our place and not live in escapism or fantasies of others. I know the little island
right. But now, today, Monday at the office, wrapped in the storm of the alien, nudging the escapism of music and imagination to outrun the encouragement of third-fat breakfast Spam. Although very turro not let me ignore this place. "What else
Monday, che. At least it has been a holiday .- spits.
I take off the headphones. - What?
"That it is almost a holiday.
-Ah. Yes - I say. I put the headphones.
- Are you going?
I take off the headphones. - What?
"That if you go somewhere.
"Yes. A Craggy Island .- say. I put the headphones.
- Why?
I take off the headphones. - What?
- Where is that?
"There is no such place.
He looks puzzled and even chewing. "Oh. Was it a joke?
-No. I will go.
- How?
shrug my shoulders. I put the headphones. Toco play. And travel.

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A man walks in the intensity toward the door.

His shadow trailing behind, and she fights with her father and first kisses and laughter and many sleepless nights of love and heartache and family Sunday called drunk and that he received from his uncle and his first night in his first apartment rented and fantasies and anxieties and dreams and failures, and mimes and talks and sadness and hope and despair and fear.

The door closes behind. Shadow with its ocean of time slips below it, passing as a pool to the other room.

remains here, on this side, the silence. Just silence. Silence and assumptions. Assumptions and whispers. Whispers and whispers. Whispers and conversations, conversations soaked and cries of anguish and panic and shit and hate.

battling armies of ideas about us in the office. Soldiers bleed and scream and lash out against each other. Succeed for a brief moment and lost for eternity.

The door opens and with it, again silence.

soldiers remain, dying, standing. The man, the man was walking down the intensity, passes between them. The recognition in the eyes of every one of us. But not paying attention. He goes to his desk. Board photos and cartoons to the security man.

greets us with a smile as wide as life itself. His lips twisted. Want to tell us something. But that's something climbing up his chest and it is anticipated that will not pass through your throat and will not open the little door of his eyes in front of us all. Her lips, then twist and nothing else.

The security assigned to it, barely, to the elevators. As if he had not seen coming and going every day working for four years. The fired containing the insult and continues.

A man walks in intensity toward the door.

His shadow trailing behind, and her hugs and tears and spoons and the games you played as a boy and the woman who broke her heart and watching movies curled up with this woman before she broke her heart his hatred for the ice cream sambayon and that sunny Saturday and the first time I laughed so hard that he had a belly and cheeks, and his first guitar lesson.

The door closes behind. Shadow with its ocean of time slips below it, passing as a pool to the other room.

remains here, on this side, the silence.

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Shadows

The ghosts of past loves wallow in our need to return. You can not go back. Every moment we are another. But the kiss, the caress, hug and bite and, for a moment, that moment where we surrender to this need, is silent chaos. For a moment the predictable and volatile disappears. We return them to the past. And here we lie, comfortable, satisfied, without being challenged. In an illusion.

The ghosts of past loves lurking in novelistic moments, moments of absolute strengths or weaknesses, we know that the beginning of the fall of any empire or movement is at its best.

The ghosts of past loves and sniff away, having located the moment in question, jump on the prowl. Sometimes we give them battle. Sometimes we give to them. We rarely find, another to another, as two buddies who do not return to the past but floating in the present.

try not to give in to that need. A not felt in every caress caresses I gave him long ago. A not listen to her moans groans of the past, sweetened in times of loneliness. I try to recognize it as another. And celebrate that.

But I can not.

We were alone in the kitchen of the office and I can not help it. I get lost in it.

smile. "I missed you .- I whisper.

As, yes, as in idealized past me first go back to my seat to anyone in the office suspected.

I get the unjustified enormity of life that is the big spam. Discover my complacent smile. "You cunt who put old coffee machine, right? While swelling.

lift my coffee cup at him. -No is told a lady .- old challenge, and took a drink.