Catchy Birthday Invitation Phrases For Tween

Visit to the exhibition "Sea" at the gallery "Au bonheur du jour"

Saturday visit to the exhibition "Sea" at the gallery "Au bonheur du jour" in Paris (for more information, click here )

Painter to Honor is Narcissus Davim:

The poster is illustrated with a photo of Sebastian Paul Lucien.

This exhibition presents some drawings of sailors assigned to Roland Caillaux, an artist whom I had the opportunity to speak when I described his major work: "Twenty lithographs run book louse j have read. " Nicole Canet also publishes a small book on Roland Caillaux, with the drawings submitted. Welcome initiative to raise awareness of this unknown artist, with a foreword by Butterfly Site "Sicilian Dreams." We see that there is still some way to get to know Roland Caillaux and refine knowledge of his life and his work.

Gentle Lead Versus Halti For A Doberman

What else does the man fled when the dream? A big
bitterness, melancholy,
Printing abandonment that gently surrounds
The idea that there is no way out of its path. He joined
gradually, the world of zombies, soulless
Motorsports walking without envy.

As these leaves falling in the off season,
It withers and fades, and constantly running in circles.
Lesser is annoying, and it infuriates the. And
can not control his temper.
Feeling isolated, it borders on insanity, And
enters the world of misunderstanding.

At Work is hell. He feels isolated.
He sees that his colleagues are not friends.
He would explain, they come to his aid,
But they do not. No one heard his speech.
There are only indifference and contempt, he knows
And eventually fired without notice!

It feels like a stranger in her own home.
To his family, he becomes a bad companion,
His head is full of emptiness, his mind was empty.
It has nothing to say, his smiles are bitter.
Her husband, her children, lost his attention, The
family unit becomes a prison.

He wants to be told that all is not over, it
have to keep fighting, believing in his utopia.
But the future is no longer a black hole, without edge.
His star has been extinguished, he sees more love.
What else does the man fled when the dream?
The urge to no longer be alive.

September 2010

Request Of Phone Line Disconnection

Addiction (s)

I could have become polluter smoking, smoky
my neighbors or my quid chewing. Fearing
above all, lack of cigarettes
Or damn me up for nicorette! In
spitting my lungs, just woke up, I even forgot
use my nose.
Living without smell is the worst scourge
Because I would not know your scent on my skin.

I could have become a drinker, alcoholic, drunken
Whose words are punctuated with "hic".
A mug reddened and a snitch in whipping,
Intoxicated by the sight of a mere "girl".
Sick in the morning to the sight of a glass of water, my whole life
Walking on the deck of a boat! My throat burned as
can neither charm
Neither the joy of tasting the salt of your tears.

I could become addicted cocaine,
me drowning in the dope, mind by "heroic". The head
obsessed with strange adventures
And arms studded with pitting.
Tremblant with my whole being when the lack arrives, I let my body
adrift. Do
controlling anything, or my hands or my eyes, I could
then stroking your hair.

I could immerse myself fully into the music, all ears
filled with heavy rhythms. Obsessed
the Walkman, the headphones glued
My esgourdes traps only syncopated tunes. The saturated volume
causing gangrene,
I'd already deaf or suffering Tinnitus! My bones
hit by these shots of drums
I could not hear your tender words of love.

I could just dump a bulimic
want to play the globe-trotting, an epic approach.
Weaving through deserts, cities and regions
In trying to understand everything, experience everything, observe everything. But
believe the world is more beautiful also
We often miss the happiness.
My eyes in this mess, never could see,
curves of your body when you sleep at night.

I could have so many things I will not,
Full enjoyment of life with you near you.
I chose your love, the finest travel alone because
allowed me to write a few pages of a novel or
the dream gives way to life,
Where reality itself delights me.
And if I have cravings, calls, emotions,
My only addiction, can only be you.

September 2010

Layaway Stores, Toronto

The Hay


the early morning, I like to point the nose to fill my nostrils
this gentle acre
Who announces the summer, pleasure, warmth,
This the smell of just cut hay.

is the time when pearl dew on grass,
When the sun crawls, delaying his survey,
Wishing for any purpose, longer days,
Making of June, the longest of journeys. This odor

wilting tickles my memory.
And I think these boots he had picked up, transported and stored
to quickly protect
By praying all the saints, they are not rain.

At the time, they said: "We'll make hay."
Parents, friends, everyone was there because
to work quickly, we gathered up.
me during my vacation, I gave them the hand. The task

was hard. From morning till night,
Using a fork, we loaded the bales
Pyramid plant placed on trays,
precarious balance was a pebble fall!

Then the wheel mounted on a stable, agrarian
Architecture transmitted from father to son,
Cathedral plant temptress
promise for all the animals confined in the barn.

But now the wheels at home, no longer exist,
Replaced by "balls" thrown at random,
In the meadows, fields, alignment weird
Without harmony, incongruous Carnac !

No need accomplices for carting the bales.
A tractor, trailer, driver and voila.
one person where he had arms.
The work is performed at the radio.

The gigantic columns of stacked balls,
Fortresses of progress that can be seen from afar,
are also symbols of what humans can create for use
profitability.

course that machines have reduced the book
Paying more effective work in the fields.
But the idea of focusing performance
surely we forget the concept of sharing.

And we no longer see, leaving a pile of hay,
Young urchins and sweet damsels, dusting
nose, away from an umbrella,
After spending a sweet moment rascal!

And these wheels collapsed at the end of winter,
Were hiding places for kids dreamed.
turns castle or mountain collapsed
To be adventurers or play war games.

If there are street kids, I'm a kid from the fields.
And the technicality does not erase any odors
From working the land, nor especially the colors,
Evidence of eternal recurrence time.

And if I have the chance, I will scamper,
Maybe a fine deer or more simply,
A rabbit running zigzag,
Around these menhirs scattered plants!

September 2010