Propellerhead Record Emulator

Round Trip

raining outside, but poorly: no cathartic downpour, no violent roar, only sparse prickly and sticky rain sticks back together all'uggia. The spirit is liberated by the storm, but heavy rain from a slow and weak. They look like centuries ago, and instead it was only last week. It was already October, when we went to sea, my father and I, and almost could not believe it to be there on the pier and in the midst of the calm expanse of water to sip an aperitif. It was sunny and there was still some fool who was thrown into the water, although it was in October, despite being six. A fisherman was waiting in vain to shore, pulling the line, without stand still, but without being impatient, having nothing to lose. The sea in autumn is a single sheet, shiny, full of shouting all summer, now forgotten by those swimmers who had made routine the day watching from the beach and baptizing their sins at night. The sun set and left almost everything wraps everything seems to shine upon the water, everything seems to smile. Yet on the highway I had hated and cursed as I continually offended the eyes. Currently there are more bad feelings, just us two in the fresh air that we breathe the air that we can. The smell of salt is a hope of rebirth, which nobody wants to bet against bad luck, something that remains in pointing. The simplicity of a third heaven, tired of a sun, a calm sea. Sway like two kids, no past, no future. There is only this one but who knows only tregusti ice cream, and that's okay.
There is a suitcase waiting for me, and just the thought of filling it makes me tremble with nausea. Account for the week days before returning to Rome, and always, when there so little is taken from property hallucinating. I would stay here, go away, I'd stay here, but now when I come back already I do not want to stay here, and when I go away I do not have the strength. I am not day nor slow nor fast. Tremble lunatic hysteria. I take care of my Paturnie entering and leaving stores with bags bigger and bigger, For centuries now that the ideologies of the Chicago in the morning, after coffee and a cigarette. Fragile is my life, not at all settled, not at all sure. I have no time to dream, I did not want to talk, do not have much to do. In the kitchen, my father and I start to sing arias by Verdi, while the timer on the oven makes us metronome out of time. Every now and then screamed into the house, screaming dry, monosyllabic, a shot. So to break out, now there father has become accustomed.
voices coming from the phone are not clearly distinguishable from those of television characters or those of Pasolini. When I was little every time I thought that I could not envision another as I have a thinking and self-consciousness. And 'as if there were everyone in my position, as if to come out when my scope is "off." For example, when I met with someone and then greet him, I could not focus on the fact that the day that person would continue, as well as his train of thought, outside of a communication back to me. It 's a complex concept to explain, especially since it is the son of a nonverbal thinking, and like dreams, is not fully translatable into linguistic form. And it is still the case for a sense .. Paul, Pali, are nothing more than rumors that I come from a phone and telling stories of light-years away from my current life's horizon. I am only other narratives that overlap the record, to show, the drama and feature films and mingle with them.
Then there is the supermarket, essex. I've always loved essex, although Berlusconi. I've always loved suepermercati and essex for me has always been the supermarket. Maybe because in Rome there is, maybe because it reminds me of the laughter of ethanol and glucose costs during periods when there was very little laugh. Even in my father essex brings fun, and seem to be two children to amusement parks as we move through the shelves colored, while escaping from the bench for the fish smell, while we stop for an entire quarter of an hour the wine department, while we detail the saving offers and then frustrated with gorgonzola first class or something totally useless but we feel like at that time because we are secretly hungry. Then my father to give you a slice of ham while they are cutting back and I bought some cake .. And that's okay.
And then you get sick together, carrying bags and bags full of used tissues from the chair, the bed and the couch, and I feel a little guilty for having attacked the influence and I hope that this can not lead to a relapse, but it seems that it is not. Then we complain in unison Sunday boredom and heal together. We exchange gossip, discuss animatedly, laughing so much. Despite his cheerful temperament and positive he is not a person laughing a lot, but this time its the laughter I'm feeling with my often and this fills my heart.
in his life my father was crying and not four times, and I was sick and when to calm entered his single bed told me he would pay gold to be able to cry, to throw something out, and now I am so happy that longer needs them. Never again can not be used as a term in our situation .. our situation is a balance precarissimo, miraculous and unexpected. It 's a thread that holds suspended a faint pink elephant and makes it whirl in the air. The elephant can not think that any moment may fall below that there is no safety net, but is surprised and illuminates whenever that ends a pirouette and a bit incredulously notes that it was he to do it. Maybe we are living in a small parenthesis in the middle of a quiet valley of tears and despair, but I do not want to think about the why and wherefore. We are the elephant, and you are very special.

overcome the gravitational currents,
space and light so you do not grow old.
And heal all diseases,
because you're a special,
and I will take care of you

.

Combination Calculator With List Of Combinations

thoughts, fears and torments
I went back to look down the road,
when the eyes went out.
The engine stopped as it made me nostalgic

returned from a trip from which I never wanted to come back.

items above
whispering voices that I'd most 'sought,
most desired.
E still noise .... and noise ....
that even his hands away.

Quanta afraid to love.

I wanted to keep the smell of your skin to breathe
in the absence of oxygen.
But the smell disappeared and I lost
across the edge of the heart.

Online With Quicktime

monotony of trench, existential.

The emptiness that surrounds me and that I surround me is slowly eroding, to the bone. Piles of clothes slap in a suitcase in bulk piles of inconsistent thoughts, heaps of days without a name, without time, without teleology. The days are lit cigarettes as if for a windy day and forgotten in the ashtray. We leave to smoke in a hurry, leaving no other trace that consume the ashes, and when we realize that is over, you realize that, we wanted to draw the smoke, and then a strange way to turn on automatic nor another. The night I turn around in bed trying to sleep and trying to drive out that crowd noise must do to my head. There is a cloud in the sky chasing its tail, but we can not see it, if we raise the eyes perceive only a single blanket, various shades of gray. E 'in October now and I should be within the hinges, I think of my degree, I think the exams, I should think of something, and instead I drag between the foreground and the steps of the door, a detuning between the brain and the next cigarette. There is something wrong in the air, there is something wrong with me. E 'weakness? E 'apraxia? It 's a phase? It 's a trend? E 'in the wake of an airplane in the sky at sunset or the Water furrow in the stone?
The wedge boots resound on the deserted streets in this town I see many faces and no soul. In the evening the streets are empty and remain alone with the sound of my footsteps, with the tobacco Squeeze and improvised and inconsistent with a thousand thoughts that overlap each other without coming to light perception, and squeal as the fork scraping the bottom of the pot.
This time it is not even the loneliness that I suffer, but I feel abandoned by myself, as if I was not there already over and I had become a tired body that drags here and there, no more nor a conscience nor a unconscious but accompanied only superegotica by an instance that is breathing down his neck and remains unheard. It 's like to be partisan at the same time, allied and Waffen-SS, like being my own worst enemy and how he no longer even the will to fight. A TV is not tuned, millions of gray lines that dance on the screen, trembling, vibrating, screaming deafening in their silence that the tragedy of their lives.
Beyond the trial, beyond hypocrisy, beyond the sarcasm, beyond grotesque, beyond tragedy, beyond the myth, beyond the real thing can exist? Around me I see only the raddled cliché in their homes, prisoners its stereotype, convinced of their uniqueness and I get a grin on his face sarcastic. I've lost the superstructure for a while, and this destabilized me at the beginning. The adolescent process makes everyone feel special and unique in their own ridiculous approval, but approval creates membership. Dona identity artificial, fictitious, but perceived by the individual as very solid. When I gradually got rid of me from all those cards that m'abitavano, I started to know me, to like and rely on myself. Not without a feeling snobbish, not free from pressures superomistico I started my way, clearing, demolishing, bombing, to build myself. The difficulties and misfortunes that have nominees were many and terrible, the tears burst like bombs forgotten hysterical and uncontrollable crying, not at all liberating, absolutely necessary. Assertion and repression of anything in and out of me oppose the inexorable power of this new self. Maybe I have not breathed for too long, maybe I just have to catch my breath, for repulsed headlong into my life in my duties and my pleasures, because those seem to be inherently biodegradable.
raining outside, then the sun comes back, then begins to rain, the fall is consistent with the alternating moments of joy and happiness and others of absolute heaviness, gasping like a fish in water, moving convulsively his mouth, but without saying anything. The banality makes me a thick nausea, spleen pulp me tachycardia and my heart beats out of rhythm, I miss my neurosis, I miss the object of my anxiety, I miss the consistency of my days, I miss the fact . Smell of gas.
The taste of whiskey, rough and edgy over me mouth, along with meaningless phrases, along with countless litanies recited for automation. When I get distracted, if not start arguments that inevitably remain incomplete, began singing the Dies Irae of Mozart, even without realizing it, and then I run and listen to the requiem, and for a moment I'm still alive.

But the sickness is Drowned by cries for more Pray to God
make it quick - watch HIM fall