These days, full of adrenaline and vertigo, time is worth more than anything. People rush to him and enslaves its name to the point, mind you size choice, to sell his soul to the devil if it offered more years. However, there are fools who bother to avoid it as many times as opportunities are to do so. The truth is that the time we get into the soul like a worm in the apple, and sometimes rots and sometimes regenerates. The first is when we intend to live beyond their scope, their guts, their inescapable tentacles, the latter appears in the happy instances of what for want of a better qualify as a second chance: people losing and losing, Life gave him a new chance. Looking back sometimes shown rotten and full of cobwebs, sometimes unrecognizable, saturated with the chiaroscuro only visible in the paintings of Rembrandt. There Abreva-time experience, drive motor, sediment, wisdom-glare indispensable for the existence copper physiognomy. And that also reigns in history, absolute mother of all present. Looking forward, then what you dream for instance, that at some point we could imagine (utopias, including those that exist and those that exist), fit in the fragile petals of her terrible countdown. Time, relentless, as the poet says in his song, no doubt, his arms covered with the safety of this and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. No wonder the Romans that Saturn, king of Latium, was endowed with the magical knowledge of what was and what could be.
This species almost extinct, such People who enjoy a calm that seems beyond the grave, those living with millimeter calculation of things to do, say with justice that is there is no choice: while it is necessary to give it time. And more or less like they threw me in the face that hot afternoon after an attack of value: "Give me time, give me time," said the girl just to hear what the light emanating from the rancid stench of the declarations of love. And that patch it asked for, that there was no way I gave because I was young, he was a beardless and blablabla, gave reason (it is true that time is money) to the hackneyed phrase that has since fully understood.
"there in the background is death, "wrote Julio Cortázar, if I remember correctly, referring to a watch. Perhaps this is why the day defoliate sand grain by grain, one after another until the last, which buries us forever. Is clear: the man who measured that invention called time has always had the last word, and it also has had the final hour, which is accompanied by a chime. As we tend full length, from east to west or vice versa, giving the impression of the longest straight line that every life might suspect, and certainly contrasts with that adopted astonishing circularity in certain villages where the return, the return, eternal return is a law, dam, also of the inevitability that without forgiveness overwhelms us in the present.
There is a time for everything. "Everything has its time," reads the biblical phrase. What truth so powerful, clear example of that transit is vital juxtaposed series of events, make love or do lunch, do we make peace or war ... Yo, I'm a downright stubborn, try finding Cronos in a variety of different occasions with the simple intention to continue poking, knowing, feeling. Here is nothing better than when overhead, the lunch, when a beautiful girl, very beautiful, speaks of him in the TV news.
A traveling companion to be seen hugging my wrist. A partner for as long as it fits in the palm of the hand (say their lines they hide their secrets). If we leave, ultimately, we will be dead forever.
This species almost extinct, such People who enjoy a calm that seems beyond the grave, those living with millimeter calculation of things to do, say with justice that is there is no choice: while it is necessary to give it time. And more or less like they threw me in the face that hot afternoon after an attack of value: "Give me time, give me time," said the girl just to hear what the light emanating from the rancid stench of the declarations of love. And that patch it asked for, that there was no way I gave because I was young, he was a beardless and blablabla, gave reason (it is true that time is money) to the hackneyed phrase that has since fully understood.
"there in the background is death, "wrote Julio Cortázar, if I remember correctly, referring to a watch. Perhaps this is why the day defoliate sand grain by grain, one after another until the last, which buries us forever. Is clear: the man who measured that invention called time has always had the last word, and it also has had the final hour, which is accompanied by a chime. As we tend full length, from east to west or vice versa, giving the impression of the longest straight line that every life might suspect, and certainly contrasts with that adopted astonishing circularity in certain villages where the return, the return, eternal return is a law, dam, also of the inevitability that without forgiveness overwhelms us in the present.
There is a time for everything. "Everything has its time," reads the biblical phrase. What truth so powerful, clear example of that transit is vital juxtaposed series of events, make love or do lunch, do we make peace or war ... Yo, I'm a downright stubborn, try finding Cronos in a variety of different occasions with the simple intention to continue poking, knowing, feeling. Here is nothing better than when overhead, the lunch, when a beautiful girl, very beautiful, speaks of him in the TV news.
A traveling companion to be seen hugging my wrist. A partner for as long as it fits in the palm of the hand (say their lines they hide their secrets). If we leave, ultimately, we will be dead forever.
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