Dabba of the word Amar | Culture

All we can do is do what we can. Some click the bells in the insurance company, and from there they take horror books, which will lie down you, Kafka. Faulkner He was a porter, a painter of a fat brush, a library dependent, a prostibule goalkeeper, the endless little mounted trades, watering with enough bottles to cross the bad drink.

Others become great reporters, they use the camera, they go from one war to another, from there they take novels like American Hemingway. Irish BecketWho rubs JoyceAs secretary, life is confused between two silence. There are only two certificates: one knows that you are born and second, knowing you die. So we go without the goal, caught between two silent, so we go from one void to another.

Sometimes a vagabone crosses, as it happened to Becket, there Mont Parnida AvenueAnd the nail, without cause, is an absurd knife, which ends a surname or genealogy, stops centimeters from the heart without cause. Enjoy Destiny, pick up a knife, play with metal and leaves you, a kiss, or a phrase or street.

There is no formula, no rules. The king, as he wrote MichaneIt comes when you want. And then, one day, hopefully, old age comes on you. You can transform everyone away from everyone, from everyone, fear grows like water in the well. You drown in that solitude when the bull landed. The big difference with the animal is that you know what you look forward to there. But you are like him. When you stop stopping into the room’s eyes, the lines and the gold that shines there. Because, until the end, you want to blow up the cap and nail the blades in the stars, hence tail and smoke.

Therefore, already bordering the abyss, you write something impossible, happiness, javelin, which plants in the heart of the oblivion. From blow to death. It’s done now Michane Stone Con I will write eelead (I will write Ilead). He will do it with the pleasure of the person who knows not going back, you can do it, you must shoot all the vessels, which is the last attack, a helmet, with a knife. You know, there is nothing but throwing against the wall, giving everything, dancing, and writing to the blood.

And by giving you the last brush to his myth, without a romantic, porn farewell, without tap. He has no kindness on anything or anyone. That is also a respected author. It is full of the writer’s toy, with the writer’s toy. Each page style, excessive, buzzing of verbs, phrases that lie to you, and lift yourself to the next mistake. In the last chapters already, in all the books he loved, the happiness reaches its kas when he turned. With no doubt, one of the strongest writers given over the past decades.

Scripture is not a stuffed animal exercise, or fun for canniches. It is something in the forest, when it is literature, put the end hair, it suppresses you, leaves you in a ple color. As against the trunk, bagpipe, javelin, and armor, we should always be upright, so that life is not quiet, it will save, what it can kill. Lebanese playwright has just done Wajdi MouawadIn it Collage de FranceIn Paris, you will leave you with some lessons. It’s done now Caravagio In the Jubilio year, in a rethinking in Rome, all his work is combined.

You do not need an armed or entire ships to lie to death. You need a book, novel, tragedy or canvas, just a few pages, just a corner, some fabric. And there you bleed through the mountain, with the tail between the legs. Of course, she returns, she doesn’t give up so easy. But not today. Not as long as we are alive. No, when we paint, we write. And art makes it. He keeps us alive. It hugs our neck, in our eyes, by mouth, like a kiss, like the sky, we enter us everywhere like the word ‘Amar’.