Fairtex Mexican Style Training Gloves Review

Quays station

Like stations. These steps. On the course of a lifetime.

A place of passage. Beam. Brewing. Speed, excitement, excitement. Crying, leak. Trains arriving from nowhere. Bound for anywhere, as long as it is elsewhere. Travelers. Visitors. Those arriving. Those who leave. Those who stay on the dock because they are abandoned, or because they never had the courage to leave with another. Those living in these tunnels covered and open to the universe of possibilities.

I like to hang out. To breathe air polluted and noisy screeching rails, grating, and cables which hang trains. Like so many lives that are hanging by a thread of energy. It is sometimes said that you would rise well in a car lane Z. Or at the last moment it would not to BX, channel A. And we would leave at ELSEWHERE. In any other set, but ELSEWHERE.

- toudoudoug ... traveler information. Train No. 000 000 departing from there and destination OTHERWISE, enter the station at 00.00, Wharf possible channel 0.

Changing lanes. Change your life. At the speed of a TGV or a coral. Noisy and uncomfortable to the rhythm of this old sedan that stops at every tiny little station. The backwoods. It never goes there. But you look out the large glass window, muddied by the sticky fingers are glued to it and never wiped the steam. The eyes are alpagués by landscapes you will never see that by far. A pretty little house. Yet some anonymous people who have their own unique life and background more or less heavy to carry. It is projected behind the track and the footprints left by these anonymous on what may be their life. We said we would be this life. Like

stations. I like seeing couples who are unable to separate. Lovers, who has a part y 'and the other remains. Alone. Dockside. Like a boat on the shores of life. Pain of abandoning the other. Pain of being forced to leave. Open wound because the other is mounted with you. Pain of those remaining. It

always more or less like this in life. Has it always someone who does not want to leave, while the other will not stay. Yet, there's also those people traveling together: they found themselves one day and are at the right time H, the D-Day, in the same station G to take the same train 000, for the same destination D . That's a lot of circumstances brought together, for that to happen. It is the luck of life, this. I liked

stations. Because I dreamed that one day he and she would stop cross, to miss, to expect one another. I thought it would one day although the appointment, since they already were found. It was not so bad. It was a stroke of luck. Or a thunderbolt. And then there 's

had the crap. And it became a rant.

So I gave him an appointment in the station that day, at this hour to ride together in the same train of life. I was hoping there would be. I was hoping to hurt me. Too bad. I was bursting is not already there. But with or without him, I would climb that I m'disais this train from nowhere to take me elsewhere, where dreams are possible again.

It never came. He arrived too soon: I was not there. After he was already gone. Maybe it happened too late. Or maybe is it never came. I will never know.

I got on the train. That of life. Without him.

And since I try to forget that amount, I think that's his hand that I would have liked to hold.

A Rap Song A Playground

The smell of dirty sidewalks


Pshuiiiifffrrruifshiiiiiit. The tire rubber smooth translucent sheet of cloth wet asphalt. Leaden sky. It curved my head and shoulders. Shivering in the cold moisture of wool navy blue coat. I walk to nowhere hand, fists dug into my pockets. The smell of iodine is too far. The gutter pours her tears, smells of dirt, towards the mouth hideous sewer. The ebony of night to skate wax bursts of electric lights. Neon neon. A sign blinked his green eyes. She watches me without depth. Green Cross that saves the soul of the blues. Carrot bar tabac which treats the melancholy. The sores are diluted in the blue water of the dirty asparthame and gold honey beer at the corner of zinc.

It is 21.00, it rained in town, and tonight without knowing why, I love the smell of dirty sidewalks.

Itchy Red Bumps On My Sack

Blood Mary

hands stuffed in the bottom pockets of jeans, hair battle against the sea wind, she shuffled down a dirty alley leading to the murky bar of 4 friends. She did not know the 4 lads schoolboy whose head gave his name only reference to Pirates of corn. Pirates came out of nowhere. Going nowhere. Not even out at sea But who Picolit during the day and part of the night sea, telling of the adventures of imaginary fishermen never returned.

- Hi beautiful. Always the same?

She nodded, golden curls sweeping the troubled waters of his eyes, vast oceans, where some sailors had ventured and had sunk. Their spirit was still floating somewhere on the tray of a failed life, where the skies would more stars.

boss brought the usual glass. As a ritual.

- What you got, the beautiful, still drinking the same? Do not you have enough to drink the blood of sailors?
She said nothing. She hardly spoke. The siren had taken over a shell in his body. Fishing nets strangle so loud when tangled.

She drank a coup. His hand fumbled the bottom of the jeans. She released some biffetons and looked at his fingers: the Navy had left moisture indigo indelible traces on his fingers. She rubbed. Nothing helped. Then his angel voice, light as a song, ordered the guy behind the counter:

- Well the dude ... Still a blood mary.

Vomiting All Of A Sudden

The Vésone


02.03.2007

The Vésone

14:00. I'm exhausted from this never-ending negotiations.
A young novice in front of me. Any fresh ground molding of his school. 12 months. A learning theory. Dropped since the beginning of the year in the reality of his profession. And incidentally also, or mainly, in the galley left by his predecessors who have succeeded and ended up throwing in the towel (and the baby with the bathwater).

This takes me back 7 years ago. The mess to manage. While bulk. You open the cupboard and it comes out the corpses. And it never ends. We must purge all that is wrong. We discover the daily problems, irregularities, financial disaster, the staff never formed, abandoned since the beginning. It's not their fault. It is the lack of organization, the stalemate in the humdrum and the claim of expertise never revived business, the bad management of "human resources" inhuman fucks up a structure but also the lives of people in their workplace.
6 years. A fight. As "Don Quixote". Cons of windmills lost their wings a long time or who can no longer run due to lack of wind. Fatigue. Stress. Discouragement. Faith. Belief that we will succeed to reverse that. It takes. Gradually. I call it my priesthood, laughing: hands dirty, feet in the mud to the knees because everything was under construction. A rebuild. Too many defects. Obsolescence. Obsolescence. It's difficult, thankless, but enthusiasm. It's exhausting but exciting. I shot with adrenaline. And finally, the first results arrived. After a few months.

My Contact this morning is lost. Completely. He asked me lots of questions and apologized.
- I'm sorry. It is rather I who should answer questions to defend my steak in our negotiations.

is disorganized in the interview. This is his first negotiations. I constantly have to refocus, while remaining attentive. He needs to tell its difficulties to bring this new suit.
I know too well what it is, but anyway: it lacks structure.

- is going well getting there. We are here to find solutions together. I bring you the knowledge I have on your shop, and what I wait for answers. Where you must find out, first. There are really urgent ... You can contact Mr. N on my part: it is well developed on this. And then he has quite a network. Ms. O, S, had the same problem as you on that. Same thing for so-and Doe. You can contact on my part. They will help you. I smiled
- and moreover, they are really cool!

He nods. He relaxes a little. Takes lots of notes. It is somewhat reassuring.
I wonder if he has the cloth to rub in that job, and accurately in a disaster. The questions he asks me information that has gaps at the outset on the environment outside its structure. How it fits into the particular policy. The "good" school seems pretentious to release its students with as much ignorance on this matter formerly of "civic education". But ... He will learn. We do this all, right? I wish him. I try anyway to explain in summary surper shortened, the institutional environment at the center of which he is now. To not drown completely.

I find his courage. He does not lose face, and he has a form of humility, intelligent against which I measure the way I did in a few months in my new job. But it looks very conscious of all this weight of responsibility inherent in its functions. It has not stopped fretting. I know. He already sees. It's a good sign.


4:30 of palaver. I imagined a battle, but ultimately it's a cooperation agreement that we signed. Strange. It changes me heated exchanges, strategies, feints, the "fat j'te dough j'te flatter" dirty tricks to avoid traps, tests to measure the fabric of the young girl that I am and who replaces VD. My usual contacts are not always nice. But I do not give up without them leave satisfied with the negotiations. Never. Even if it drags. Zero failure for an hour. I put on the face-off win / win. It's my little personal satisfaction in this job I'm already jaded.
Stop the interview. We can move forward. The ball is in his court. He is relaxed now. Almost assured. He knows now that I will help. He Taff 'and it is urgent, his bread shall not remain on the board.

Reminds me that I'm hungry. I carbureted coffee since 6:30 this morning. It's been long. I want to shoot as nicotine. I'm off. On the other side of the street. I give myself 20 minutes. No more: other professional obligations waiting for me at 14:30. Top chrono. It floats: no luck. But ... a car stops to let me pass. Current. Bilayer on the carpet with white stripes dirty, deadly for bikers when it rains. And above all, there is The Vésone.

is a neighborhood bar near the city administration. Close to the greenway bordering the Isle. By early afternoon, me, there is no crowd. Customers lunch resumed their work, their course, the course of the day's agenda. I arrive after the excitement of this slot between noon and two. Cleaning tables, chairs, storage, emptied ashtrays, cigarette smoke dissipated, and especially quiet of 7 or 8 people who are still there quietly. Leaning on the counter to chat with the boss. Isolated in the corner, in both watercolors Perigord, to the cast iron radiator, eyes glued to the TV screen where the game is terrible do you ever dream that gains unlikely. Some media have focused on the corner, strolling between the mag TV, reviewed porn and dreams of travel into remote areas.

boss throws me to the world at large and frank "Booonjour dear miss! ". It takes advantage of its pillars zinc, from behind his drum racks and glass:
- See that ray of sunshine back! is a loyal customer: it comes every day!

I can never get from what is sincere or shopping at home. His wife smiled at me. I can not help but find them both good guys. That's why I come back every days. I feel good. It is small with his glasses, his shirt Texas, his jeans, his hair tied with a rubber band or a bar:
- Same as usual? Ouch ... 14:00. . what we have left?

She turns to the boss:
- You've got bread?

Anyway, he would seek me to prepare this' wish. At the bakery 100 meters above. Or elsewhere in central Perigueux if necessary. It is like this. Trader through and through, but also attached to his regulars. It's comforting to get support.

- Yes as usual 'if possible. And the coffee at the same time. I have only 20 minutes. Thank you very much. I pay direct 'smoking is OK?

Behind the counter tobacco, postcards and scratch games to the left of the entrance, there is this big and beautiful blonde woman. Blue eyes. Fifties. I sometimes to her laugh. She is charming. But it is sad. Deeply sad. Sometimes, when I asked him " dunhil of red. Inter, please ... Yes ... Two. Thank you. ... And the fact you have cards like birthday greetings, etc..? It for the farewell of a colleague ... "escaping her eyes. His gaze is lost along the front of her journals. He slides without stopping on any title clash of the tabloids or mag gossip do not care who you impress. So much that it hurts the eyes. Me, I love reading the headlines: it's really funny I think! A marketing smokescreen of perlimpimpim, but that works to believe.
But she did not laugh.

him I invented a life. Married? Alone? Children? This is the boss's sister. A boutique family. Probably why it feels good.
- 20 minutes? It is not much. Well ... sit trannnn-that-Miss-ing ... Come ... relax: we take care of you.

It's good to let a little support. It feels good. I forgot my cigarettes on the counter tobacco. The boss gives me a chuckle:
- You really need a break, eh?

I chuckle. Dizzy ... eternally. 'm Incurable.

20 minutes is not much. But 20 minutes in small Vésone is like a phone spent a good friend. It's comforting as a hot chocolate with cinnamon and spices, which makes this tiny tearoom and simple to Brantome. It's like this ray of sunshine that pierced from behind the clouds intermittently in the morning on the way to work.

- Hidden .. sun. Hidden ... Bôooooo! Laughing tintinnabulent child in the car seat in the rear.

Yes ... He plays hide and seek the sun. But it is there. And it warms the heart. Like 20 minutes at table in Vésone. And he continues to shine in my heart so that day, in addition, the wife of tobacco gave me a smile.

What Happens When You Drink Colyte

The ideal wall

The ideal wall in the eye:

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(Last Saturday, the ideal wall was that of a fisherman's hut at the Test Buch. lean, and watch the harbor, fishing smacks. Breathe the scent of the oil and mud. The dried oyster shells, gutted, broken, and the strong smell of fishing nets.)




the wall When I

child, I dreamed of the day I'd be big enough to make the wall.

Later, I encountered what I imagined as never to open doors with a key. Key. It was just that I find, I choose the right one, and I open the right door if by chance she was not ajar.

And then my eyes were thumped, my fingers were injured: the doors were only sham, hiding the concrete wall of a hellish. Gray, sad, a height unreachable.

I then remained for a moment. At his feet. I got lamented.

I do not like walls. I hate them.

The ideal wall? This would be the one through which we can pass, as the through-wall. This would be one that would sink a punch, like paper mache, instead of getting hurt hands. This would be one that would be translucent, like a huge bay window and long to infinity, never cloudy or milky, through which I could glimpse. This would be one that can still be solid for the moments of fatigue when the road is too long, too hard, and you can not find a shoulder to lean on. It would be a knowledgeable guide, we brushed his fingers along its route, not to get lost in the dark too dark. There would niches where a candle would shine, so we can always find. Do not get lost and disappear completely, body and soul in the bitterness of a life of sticky grime. The ideal wall? It would be everything at once. It would be lovely low wall, when we walk through some small villages so remote that there is more than stones, moss and flowers in a cottage garden to flavor your nostrils. The ideal wall? It is intangible but material yet. As a membrane. As a pocket. Maybe like the womb. Maybe.

Funny Saying To Write On A Gravestone

Get outdoors

Take the air.

Take off. With a taste of vacancy.

Being leaving.

Tomorrow, escaped the edge of the Atlantic to watch the horizon if the summer decides to return to port for the season.

Home Made Rabbit Wateriing System

ash

I coughed a bit because of the smoke (but it can also be stopping smoking). There's more doors, more windows. I bought some empty shelves. That way, there's nothing left to burn. My eyes did not even cry. A good sweep. When all is consumed, eventually, you start to see more clearly.

Date Counter For Relationships

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