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misplaced my battle armor layer

Oscar Wilde gave a great definition of Fashion: After all, what is the fashion ? From the artistic point of view one way ugliness so intolerable that we have to change every six months.

layers are no longer fashionable. It is a pity, because few people know that they are directly related to the soul. You could say that the soul is a great layer. Color that everyone wants, with the cut to go with the personality of each. The shape and color is not important. What really matters is having the greatest possible number of patches:

Throughout life we with people: families, friends, lovers, ... those who give a piece of our ability. Each time we take a fragment, the layer starts to have a hole. This hole is covered, in turn, with layered pieces that we receive from others. Sometimes they give us a smaller piece than we had delivered. Other times it's bigger and can cover other gaps or even enlarge a little coat.

is sometimes suffer great disappointments: an unrequited love, a betrayal of a friend, and the hole left in your coat seems to never be replaced. For here comes the cold, which is like loneliness or fear, feelings that become larger the more time devoted to them.

But if you have chosen, if the fabric of who you met along your journey is of good quality, If you let the layers of clothing for those who love you and want the best for you, those holes are patched and the cold disappears.

I'm proud of my coat. Is large and full of patches of all sizes, colors and shapes.

And now I look before you wear it to go out and smile, thanking each and every one of those who have contributed to the fabric. And just hope that the pieces that I spread over my way entertain those who gave them a piece of mine.

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Afraid
Sir William looked around without deciding on any armor in particular. Anvyl, the blacksmith, came from the back with a shell that, in his view, could be the taste of exquisite customer.

- too ostentatious, perhaps, dear Anvyl.

- is lightweight and durable. Allows great mobility and has a delicate gold filigree with the motive of the two dragons with heads cross, the shield of his fief.

- but is it already, you see, look for a battle armor.

- What battle?

- Yes, more suffering. Just always end up smeared with mud, blood and ashes.

Anvyl opened his mouth and closed it again several times without making any sound. Sir William was the first noble Afraid I knew who disowned his own flourishes range. It was normal to abuse the precious metal, very malleable, but very resistant. Usually it was the excess trimmings, heraldry and surnames stamps families linked to "de" for more rank. And feathers. They loved to wear feathers in the helmet. And color. And raptor feathers of majestic eagles or hawks fierce. No. I asked feathers of pheasants and peacocks. They liked to ride on horses decked out and full of colors and decorations of attracting the attention of the enemy from hundreds of meters away. And now Sir William Afraid came and said he wanted an unadorned armor:

- More battle, then?

The noble donned his velvet gloves, wearing wide-brimmed hat, bade farewell to his humble blacksmith:

- Yes, dear Anvyl. Something that works. Not shred with a sword. Something that allows me to go unnoticed.

Anvyl The good was surprised himself with tears of excitement down her cheek. Finally going to get the job of his life.

- Hector prepares the forge!

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Blankets

cold today and blankets shivering loneliness. Some are straight and neatly arranged on beds. Others are crumpled into a ball. All are frozen, hoping that a warm body is covered with them. They have spent all day alone and at the expense of cold air these days that turn night after five. And now that the hour hand again approaches its zenith, the blankets are rejoicing at the idea that someone is wrapped inside, spreading its fragrance and warmth. Someone who spread its gentle warmth to a room that only knows how to give hugs. It's cold, but when night falls rugs are happy to have somebody to warm up.

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Think this

this post should be read with a song of Madeleine Peiroux background ... This is heaven to me ...

http://www.lastfm.es/music/Madeleine+Peyroux/_/This+Is+Heaven+to+Me?autostart

or




was sitting in his favorite corner of Tripoli Café. He got up slowly unable to avoid listening to two big women dressed up and covered with furs and jewels as if nothing underneath all that paraphernalia. Talk bad about someone who was not present. She smiled politely and left the cafe into the cold November afternoon.
He put on his gray wool cap, wrap pressed against his chest and came out into the street happy. I did not know what it was, but it all chuckle. A girl who complained because he wanted the Cinderella dress I had seen in the shop window Morris Costume Soto, a playful puppy that had twisted his belt between the legs of young woman who was walking, a man waiting in earnest and dull the bus stop be put to cuddle a baby who looked stunned and did not know whether to laugh or mourn.
The bus stopped and she came in smiling. The driver smiled back. The people were serious, gray, looking at any site within the bus. When looked eager to get to their destinations. Looked lights out without seeing them. And she saw them all and was happy. Not pitied. Nor envied. Just felt good and thought that they could all be as well. That happiness is not anywhere and can also be found in every small gesture.
pressed the stop button. The bus stopped. Before downloading goodbye to a girl near the exit that had a balloon of a mouse with black ears and stubborn dishes. The girl returned the gesture with his hand and swung with joy some little legs that have not yet reached the ground.
moved toward its portal, unraveling a thought that made her smile again. Maybe that's the secret that explains why it feels so good. Maybe it's as simple as returning to see things like when we were children. Like when we had no clock and the future did not matter because it was far away. Maybe it's as easy as learning to enjoy what is happening right now without being dependent on what happens next.

Famed musician and arranger

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lyricist

lyricist looking to complete his latest composition. Price negotiable (in the form of royalties, royalties, and would be).

I tried to upload a sample of Internet music, but this does not concern me very well and I can not hang the item. Nor

I could upload the sheet music because I do not know music theory (I'm self taught and play by ear. Really. I hear a tune in two minutes and take her out to the body).

leave here the music reference. Note: Sun and scale plays allegro pace.

Titititíííííí Titititííííí
Tu-pa, Tupa-Tupa, tu-pa, Tupa Tupa
(bridge)
Chan! chananana chananana
Chana nanana! Chanana Chanana Chanana Chanana
Psssssstttt Tupa!
(Chorus)
tiriruri tirirú Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí tiriruri tirirú to
Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí
hummed to Tararaaaaaaaaaaaa
(chorus)
Chinina tintirotiró Tiririca tiriri Titus (Chinina Chinina)
Guarangua guanguara twubidú, guarangua guanguara twubidí dubidú
(solo)
Tiritititíiiiii turiruríi totitotó taruritutiritotatúúúú
turiruriruriruriruriruri tuííííi turururutirurururíííí

Tupa Tupa (bridge)
Chan! chananana chananana
Chana nanana! Chanana Chanana Chanana Chanana
Psssssstttt Tupa!
(Chorus)
tiriruri tirirú Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí tiriruri tirirú to
Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí to
(Chorus)
tiriruri tirirú Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí tiriruri tirirú to
Tiri, Turira Turira Turira turitíííí to

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Wanted to tell

seems that everything returns to normal. It seems that things tend to be like they used to. As they deserve. As best they are. Balanced.

ideas now that you have accumulated inside the mind for months, as if furry little balls in a box they were, now they play rowdy because they have no place in his head, began to parade before him stories and arguments.

Mongolian Writing - a place for God `s meditation
Originally uploaded by Jeff Bauche._ .·'¯)

were always there, but for a time to see them leave with a look storytelling . Perhaps out of pragmatism. Most likely out of laziness. But he is infected. Long ago caught the bug to narrate, to tell things as he sees and, even take breaks, always returns.

already left once and returned in another. No doubt he will leave, since this can not help feeling like a sea attracted and repelled by a playful and whimsical moon. But now I do not think so in the future and prefer to focus more on what is happening in what will happen. Perhaps it is because what is happening now becomes tense as soon as you read. Probably do not want her wandering thoughts, ideas and occurrences pilgrims are firefighter lost in the furrows of his memory.

not know the reason and I do not care. Just know that wants to tell.