carpet [Theme]

I wanted to be happy, but I couldn't. Twenty years is a huge time, and memory is not a stone, but rather something fluid, especially at such an advanced age. And we keep filling the memory gaps with false memories. You could have sworn that the carpet in your parents' house was blue, but it's actually brown. And the steak on your twenty-first birthday wasn't steak, it was lamb.

Wait for my visit.

few?

I can't shoot. He's a human being. He'll bleed the carpet.

Sometimes when thrown on the carpet it does not hurt as much as when thrown on money

To continue the unfinished work for the professional activity stupid and generally useless. For example, in India, since ancient times, each silk rug was made only by one master for a long time. God forbid what will happen to coproduce, so it was all for nothing. No one had not occurred to continue the work.

- Dear Rob us, Rob. Someone's stealing our stuff.
- So what? What is there to steal? Well, I kind of, well, pots will be taken, carpet, well, I still don't like it.
I'll go with you, with you, okay.
- What are you going to help? No, no, I don't know what to do.
- I'll go with you. Please take the poker.
- Get poker? And if the enemy is poker more?

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.
Alas, I must also be approved by the absurd actions to acutely feel some bubble or mosquito unity, and person. Just not one that sounds good. Leave it for curly-haired boys with guitars that call to hit heads against stone walls. Existentialism, his mother! I do know the meaning of your life, but are unable to implement it fully. Can't get rid of habits that are as far from the truth, as a set of psychological properties of the monkey from the man. Isn't that a big gap? Even too big.
However, you need to live. At peace with itself and the constant enmity with the world.
And indicate the existence of a genuine sense in opening the space of truth.
And even if you're a poet, look often at the night stars. If you're not a poet, still get out on the balcony and watch. Maybe ever notice how one of the stars winked at you. And invited into the flight. Here you can open up to the true moments of life. Don't miss a moment.
But if you don't have a balcony, and you're not a poet, and your head rarely turns to the stars, then go and look at his feet - and there you can see reflected in the puddle star. Well, like wink?

I also have a cat. Not easy. Philosophical, psychological, existential. His name is Socrates. He had red hair, old and fat.
He constantly needs to assert and define their existence. He needs a cut from the everyday space of meanings. And he cuts through them where possible and where not. Often the latter. The back of the sofa riddled with meaning, the litter box, too, a carpet with tufts of red wool, "cemetery" chicken bones under the kitchen table - all Socratic sense.
Sometimes he deliberately wakes me up at night when I lay hungover, so I got mad, lost his temper and "identified" it is the existence of bashing.
Socrates rises to his paws to my ear, loud screaming, then runs away headlong, hiding under the sofa and squeaks. In a word, existential bastard.



Explanation of the quote:

From the novel "Psychologist and a psychopath".
Cat Socrates and the owner.

- See, this casserole is you: et you are a mom, you et with your colleagues, at you drunk on my carpet has struganova, you with this guy. And here is your relationship with the father.
- What?
- Void you have here.
I don't have any emptiness. We're just childhood issue.
- So that's what I mean. You have this problem. You seize because of this, and wish that you all loved. You don't know whether he loves you or not. So to fill you slice a guy with his smear - to and here and there it was. In short a normal relationship not to build, you need to void the issue is resolved, then the kid the piece intact, and a normal man came by. Which casserole bomber does.

Myra started to weave carpets. No one taught her this craft, but like always he was known. She painted strands so that, no matter how much my color is not lost. This is Myra taught me important, from what I know. Said weave have heart. The heart is the same tangle, Rubiaceae, prickly, hot. Every day otmetili from him for a little bit and upleta to work. To turn his heart into his work few can, and you manage, this is your task.

You, my good Sirs, to be going around without galoshes. First, you'll catch cold and secondly you'll track up to me on the carpet. And all the rugs I Persian.

To smell I can't
but will not fade,
I color not in the meadow,
and Kolo sofa.
You look at Magna as a thief,
but stop your attitude,
after all, who thought me to tear, -
in a straitjacket.

Al carpet harbors eyes?
Al is not the one in the rug pattern?
Well, I duck under his arm -
And ending the conversation!
So no wonder the gap works,
I merchants sell it
And he let him Race
Floats in Amsterdam!..