Digestion of Kafka | CTRL
Every face - even the purest / pretty / erotic - is monstrous. To prove it I will take a baby. Framing her face. Smooth / buttery / smiling: life there is still passed over with the plow of the habits of pimples and wrinkles. Well: squeeze the shot. You see only the nostrils. Zooma yet. Step into one nostril. Dark. Windy environment. Sticky hairs as impressive stalactites and oscillating. Fall of mucus from the ceiling. Zooma yet. You see the huge potato croquettes elongated floating uncoordinated and threatening? They are bacteria. Monstrous.
I come back on this later. I go with order; This article is composed of two halves: first place, cookies the other a story. What I will do is combine the two halves, mix, knead, stir and so on, then we'll cookies see what comes out. Everything comes so: I go to Gandino with a book by Kafka.
I sit at the Cafe Central. I want to invent a new form of tourism: you choose a place and a book. Not a book about just that place would be like putting a tomato sauce on the tomatoes. You can choose a short story, one of those that you see in a few minutes and you bounce in much longer. The beauty is that you can then walk, talk to people, spying into windows and that continues to rebound: that way the better to digest the changes. It will also transform the places around, then that is the only way that we assimilate the reality.
Coffee Central to order a herringbone: a cake of maize that are only here. In the square there are a dozen people, all look in your living room, busy staring at the usual furniture: the glass, the fountain, the numbered tiles of the race of eggs. The first one is a sculpted, after a meter 2, then 3, 4 and so on, up to 100, a tile numbered each meter. From my table I see them well.
"Before the Law there is a keeper. Before him is a man of the field and asks you to enter the law. But the Guardian says that he no longer can give to get. " The tale begins. A starting inexorable ruthlessness that promises a skinny bitch. I like it. The race of eggs you participate cookies in two: one runs from Gandino in Fiorano al Serio, and return cookies - just over 12km - the other only along the 100 meters: the problem is that each tile is an egg that 'athlete must collect and bring to the base. Of course, one egg at a time so the 100 meters become cursed 10,100 meters. cookies When you read Kafka does not measure how interesting, or shocking. It is a story that fits you. I read again and you measure again like when your father cookies marked the height on the kitchen wall. But it may be that the mark is lower than last time.
The story continues: the countryman waiting in front of the keeper, for days and years. The door of the law is open, but not enter. The Guardian is not grim, more than anything else is as thin as un'autoconvinzione. Instills fear in humans to the guardians of the next doors. So the man waits, curses, screams and then "rimbambisce and since studying for years the guardian knows now the fleas of his lapel, begs these to help him and to change the opinion to the guardian." Deathbed has an epiphany; so whispers: "They all tend toward the law, how come all these years no one else has asked to come in?". The answer Guardian closes the story: in a couple cookies of lines there is material for dozens of novels. Go and look for the final.
I get up. Pago. I walk the tiles, a number after the other; if I go back each time to the starting cookies point I would take me more than an hour. Meanwhile Kafka bounces: the law has a completely different value in Jewish culture; Western romantics we can translate with happiness, to aid digestion. More walking and more Kafka is mixed with the numbers on the tiles, with the herringbone, with Mario that comes towards me across the street limping on the stick, cursing at cars that do not stop moving, they think I'm of 'Eco di Bergamo, dragging me in the bar of confidence to take a bitter and to listen to his rhymes porn-senile. Mix and bounce: fleas on the lapel of the guardian, the bitter, the countryman property cookies that begs the fleas that increasingly s'ingrandiscono, eggs, nursery cookies rhymes sconce. And in the end there's also bacteria-nuggets-of-potatoes, those in the baby's nostril. He zoomed in one and frame it. The bacterium turns into huge balls of protons and neutrons with electrons revolving around us without respite. Expanses of emptiness between the protons and electrons. Everything seems so precarious. It remains motionless. It seems to be finished in the middle of the universe. Let me quote: There is, I suspect, border, at least in the sense that we are accustomed to thinking. Not C
Every face - even the purest / pretty / erotic - is monstrous. To prove it I will take a baby. Framing her face. Smooth / buttery / smiling: life there is still passed over with the plow of the habits of pimples and wrinkles. Well: squeeze the shot. You see only the nostrils. Zooma yet. Step into one nostril. Dark. Windy environment. Sticky hairs as impressive stalactites and oscillating. Fall of mucus from the ceiling. Zooma yet. You see the huge potato croquettes elongated floating uncoordinated and threatening? They are bacteria. Monstrous.
I come back on this later. I go with order; This article is composed of two halves: first place, cookies the other a story. What I will do is combine the two halves, mix, knead, stir and so on, then we'll cookies see what comes out. Everything comes so: I go to Gandino with a book by Kafka.
I sit at the Cafe Central. I want to invent a new form of tourism: you choose a place and a book. Not a book about just that place would be like putting a tomato sauce on the tomatoes. You can choose a short story, one of those that you see in a few minutes and you bounce in much longer. The beauty is that you can then walk, talk to people, spying into windows and that continues to rebound: that way the better to digest the changes. It will also transform the places around, then that is the only way that we assimilate the reality.
Coffee Central to order a herringbone: a cake of maize that are only here. In the square there are a dozen people, all look in your living room, busy staring at the usual furniture: the glass, the fountain, the numbered tiles of the race of eggs. The first one is a sculpted, after a meter 2, then 3, 4 and so on, up to 100, a tile numbered each meter. From my table I see them well.
"Before the Law there is a keeper. Before him is a man of the field and asks you to enter the law. But the Guardian says that he no longer can give to get. " The tale begins. A starting inexorable ruthlessness that promises a skinny bitch. I like it. The race of eggs you participate cookies in two: one runs from Gandino in Fiorano al Serio, and return cookies - just over 12km - the other only along the 100 meters: the problem is that each tile is an egg that 'athlete must collect and bring to the base. Of course, one egg at a time so the 100 meters become cursed 10,100 meters. cookies When you read Kafka does not measure how interesting, or shocking. It is a story that fits you. I read again and you measure again like when your father cookies marked the height on the kitchen wall. But it may be that the mark is lower than last time.
The story continues: the countryman waiting in front of the keeper, for days and years. The door of the law is open, but not enter. The Guardian is not grim, more than anything else is as thin as un'autoconvinzione. Instills fear in humans to the guardians of the next doors. So the man waits, curses, screams and then "rimbambisce and since studying for years the guardian knows now the fleas of his lapel, begs these to help him and to change the opinion to the guardian." Deathbed has an epiphany; so whispers: "They all tend toward the law, how come all these years no one else has asked to come in?". The answer Guardian closes the story: in a couple cookies of lines there is material for dozens of novels. Go and look for the final.
I get up. Pago. I walk the tiles, a number after the other; if I go back each time to the starting cookies point I would take me more than an hour. Meanwhile Kafka bounces: the law has a completely different value in Jewish culture; Western romantics we can translate with happiness, to aid digestion. More walking and more Kafka is mixed with the numbers on the tiles, with the herringbone, with Mario that comes towards me across the street limping on the stick, cursing at cars that do not stop moving, they think I'm of 'Eco di Bergamo, dragging me in the bar of confidence to take a bitter and to listen to his rhymes porn-senile. Mix and bounce: fleas on the lapel of the guardian, the bitter, the countryman property cookies that begs the fleas that increasingly s'ingrandiscono, eggs, nursery cookies rhymes sconce. And in the end there's also bacteria-nuggets-of-potatoes, those in the baby's nostril. He zoomed in one and frame it. The bacterium turns into huge balls of protons and neutrons with electrons revolving around us without respite. Expanses of emptiness between the protons and electrons. Everything seems so precarious. It remains motionless. It seems to be finished in the middle of the universe. Let me quote: There is, I suspect, border, at least in the sense that we are accustomed to thinking. Not C
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