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It is about asphyxia. So as to arrive at last somewhere else without a hand and without a sweater, somewhere where there may be only a fragrant air that surrounds and accompanies and caresses him and twelve stories.
And in so doing help his left hand with his right hand so that it can pass through the sleeve or retreat and get out, although it is almost impossible to jukio the movements of the two hands, as if his left hand were a rat trapped in a cage and another rat on the outside wanted to help it escape.
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No se culpe a nadie – Journal –
The hand is the symbol of our power to construct our own lives, the way we want to, according to our needs and aspirations. Your reference will not appear until it has been cleared by cotrazar website editor.
If this were so his hand would have to come out juoio yet he still pulls with all his might and cannot advance either one of his hands. It has something of a concealed dance step about it, irreproachable because it reflects a utilitarian aim not some guilty choreographic tendencies. You are commenting using your WordPress. As you can see, by the continuous lack of posts on jadie blog, I have been quiet…artistically mute…blocked. Perhaps it would be best to do everything at the same time: Language is the way we stay human and writing is the most intimate use of language we can try.
In any case, to be sure of it, the only thing he can do is to keep making his way, taking deep breaths and letting the air escape little by little, sse if it were absurd because nothing is impeding him from breathing perfectly apart from the fact that the air he swallows is mixed with wool particles from the collar or the sleeve of the sweater. Post a Cortazae Comment Enter your information below to add a new comment. His imagination is an overwhelming example of the limitless capabilities of our creativity.
Yet the right hand keeps coming and going messily as if it were already ridiculous to give up at this advanced stage, and as if at mulio time it would comply and xulpe to the height of his head and he would pull upwards without understanding in time that the sweater has stuck to his face with that humid rubber-like quality from his breath mixed with the blue of the wool, and when his hand is drawn upwards he feels pain as if his ears were being ripped off and his eyelashes yanked out.
But now at half past six his wife is waiting for him in a cortszar to pick out a wedding gift. This anarchy to conventions teaches me that language is a bridge from your soul into the soul of the other. Scholars say that the sweater represents his life.
All this fills him with dread and he wants to stop putting on the sweater right then and there, without taking into account that it must be late and that his wife might be waiting impatiently cuple him in front of the shop doors. Ripley film The Talented Mr. Post was not sent – check your email addresses! The English translation by Stephen Kessler is as precise as I have seen.
Don’t Blame Anyone.-
You are commenting using your Facebook account. A life of social norms and standards that he cannot fit into and the more he tries, the more he has trouble breathing. Twitter Facebook Email Reddit.
So more slowly; so he has to use the hand he has placed in the left sleeve, if this is really the sleeve and not the collar. The hand can create and protect or it can destroy and attack. Is it a creativity problem? Francis of Assisi St. He finds it difficult regardless to pass his arm through, with his hand advancing little by little until at the end a finger emerges from the blue wool fist.
It is not easy, perhaps owing to the shirt’s sticking to the wool of the sweater. His face, still part of his head, ought to stay out; but his forehead and his whole face remain covered and his arms are barely halfway through the sleeves. You can read the original here. Ju,io, he does not want to open his eyes but he knows that he has gotten out, this cold material, this is delicious in the free air.
And he does not want to open his eyes and waits a second, two seconds, and lets himself live in a cold and different time, the time of being outside naxie the sweater. References will be subject to editor approval before appearing.
He takes his sweater off and examines his hand, but now the hand is perfectly normal. And suddenly it is cold in his eyebrows and his forehead, in his eyes. With one tug the sweater sleeve is pulled off and he looks at his hand as if it were not his. We are all inside a blue sweater at one point of our lives, struggling to get out and seeing ourselves from the outside, not liking what we see.
He whistles a tango perfunctorily as he moves away from cklpe open window, then looks for a sweater in the wardrobe and begins to put it on in front of the mirror. But now that it’s out of the sweater the hand again looks like it always has, and he lets it fall from the end of his lazy arm as it occurs to him that it would be better to pass the other arm through the other sleeve to see whether it would be simpler that way.
No matter how hard he pulls, nothing comes out, and he realizes that perhaps he made a mistake owing to the ironic anger with which he resumed the task, and that he was stupid enough to have placed his head in one of the sleeves and a hand through the collar of the sweater. A work “No one is to blame” by this Argentine. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here It seemed like it would not because hardly has the wool of the sweater gotten stuck to the shirt again, owing still to the operation as well as to his habit of beginning with the iulio, difficult sleeve, when he starts to whistle again so as to distract himself, feeling that the arm is barely advancing and that, without some kind of complementary manoeuvre, he would never get ujlio of here.
Don’t Blame Anyone.- – NonUseMuse
He is certain that his wet mouth is being enveloped in blue, then his nostrils, then cotazar cheeks. Little point to keep tugging at the front of the sweater because on the chest area he can only feel the shirt.
It hurts too much and his right hand, in any case, would need to help instead of rising or falling uselessly towards his legs, instead of nibbling at his thigh as it is doing, scratching and nibbling through the clothing without being able to stop itself from doing so because all his willpower is contained in his left hand.