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Ladybugs fascinate me. They symbolise a part of my childhood: running barefoot through fields of tall green grasses and scaling greedily up scabrous-bark clad trees before performing pirouettes on their crawling branches. I once fell on my head, and with the effusion of blood ebbed my passion for acrobatic fancies. I confined myself to terrestrial…
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Trying to find my way back; to that road I was walking on. Everything is a haze, a monotonous, all-consuming lull. And I can’t seem to break out of this infernal, stomach-turning madness — an interlude-become-nightmare.
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Again, I am reliving that age-old scene: there I am, trembling and anxious, in a daze, consumed by a febrile instantiated dementia, forever erect upon that eternal precipice, teetering. Somehow I never fall, I always manage to retain my upwardness – my humanity – but perhaps now, just this once, I shall fall unto my…
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The inveterate melancholic that I am, I catch myself sifting through the memories of the hour car ride that separates Albuquerque from Santa Fe — eternally. The Sandia Mountains, fingertips drenched in frothing snow, greet the arrival with solemnous salaams. The rest, an ostensibly barren wasteland, a flat martian landscape etched into the geographic façade…
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Es con nostalgia que recuerdo mis estancia en St. John’s y en Santa Fe. Recuerdo el iridiscente marrón de sus edificios, el fresco del atardecer veranal. También, la dulce lluvia intoxicada de calor y odorífera de lavanda mitigada por el incomparable olor de la tierra humeda. Y todo esto bajo el manto de un sol…
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No Internet access at home for the time being. I doubt I’ll pay again the £5 fee to use the hotspot at the nearby Starbucks for an hour; it’s simply not worth it.
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I have the image of Proust-qua-narrator ascending the wonderful path that leads to la Raspelière, together with some of the faithful — i.e., Mme Verdurin’s chronies. The air redolent of salt and sand whafs and in the distance, as if in the periphery of a human affected reality, the undulating ocean. I hear the prattle,…
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El último post carece de una coclusión; termina abruptamente. Y de misma forma la fuente e inspiración — en sentido pasado. Es una simple observación y aunque tenía la intención de borrarlo, he decidido manetenerlo como marcador cronológico. Tras una frase entera, se esconde una historia humana completa y trágica. Alguien me ha dicho que…
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Ireland is fast-awakening from the penetrating and invernal darkness that has held this wind-swept land under its tyranny. The days — some — already betray what is in store: never-ending days of sunshine punctuated by random rain storms. But best of all, copious amounts of natural light. The rays of light shall invest every nook…