List Of Pokemon Crater Legendaries

Joan Colominas

My biography ... ..?. To begin, I would have to put "red" , it was my property, especially when class girls were going to me. This degree of shyness has followed me throughout my life, of course now is not so obvious. Studied at the Academy Culture from primary to COU, I used the stairs all the classes, the nursery side, the central primary school and the "front door" of the plant low for the elementary school. The COU high school, and I did at the Academy of Gran Via / Villarroel. Then, in college, studied nursing and the profession to which I have been since I graduated in 1980. I've been in several hospitals where I have tried to play all the specialties that interest me, ICU, ER, Orthopedics, Radiology, Hospital and dedicated both to the care and research, teaching and management. I am currently in the Health Area of \u200b\u200ban active part sevadar (servei measure of dependence).

On the personal side ...., I married 29 years ago (1982) to Imma. We have always lived in Barcelona, \u200b\u200bcurrently in Sant Andreu. He had 2 daughters, Iris (1985) that was only with us 15 years, a fatal disease was carried in 7 days ( http://perso.wanadoo.es/jcolominas ) and Jana (1988) that psychology is over 23 years and wants to go to London for a few months "off" ... ... .. aaaayyyyyy !!!!!.

Right now I have 50 years and 18 months and calls me "Colo".

d' 6 April 2011

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The cemetery of the astronauts

By late afternoon, clearly distinguish the old moon above the horizon rolling. Appears, for the orphans, loose pair of shoes. It is strange to think that, precisely, when someone dies, usually keep one foot footwear. Rotan lazy and rub with light helium rings. Night in the space can not be more formidable and opaque. All cemeteries say it, but he does it with a soft and strange joy: I hope in my white headstones, under the red dust that you step in sensual usury death.

I am the last remaining astronaut on Mars. When the storm hits, as the sealing of a posthumous letter, the cemetery will be gone.

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Enemies

Sometimes I wonder how I managed to make me throughout my life with so many enemies. The odd thing is that many of them, despite what my conscience dictates (or precisely because of that), I have gained by me do right. I am not referring to enemies more or less trivial, furtive or gaseous chamber rivals or neighbors with ornery face I speak of undesirable called me home early, I suspect packages sent to work or they threatened to break my legs . People in a town so small, sometimes I come across the street from a rainbow of color in a cold soup, look at me with a glazed look of hatred. Yes I admit that I have looked well to other human beings, especially when they drive or smile smugly affluent restaurant. I've even thought about making a knife wielding night expeditions tortoiseshell handle. But I always thought that phrase to drop Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven ("kill a man is very hard, stripped of everything that is ... and everything that could become") and just to retire to the cave. I do not know, maybe my worst enemy is within me, that guy who tries to walk the world pushing between his lips a breath of honesty. What bullshit. Maybe that's why I like the soft drink with a bitter background ... and the ice floating in it with a bullet.

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it's not a bad place

it's not a bad site. I warned that the winter would be cruel, that I could go really wrong. I whispered to begging in the streets could stay icicle. It is true that sometimes I bite the air and not feel my toes, or chilblains I grow as larvae in the flesh of the ears. But suffered from cold in my country, when that icy wind howled and night. Not to mention the time spent on the hill, surrounded by soldiers. Those other times they were fierce. Times swords and thorns. So now I beg reciting verses, I have a repertoire wide and, without sin of vanity, pretty decent. No one ever listens to Gabriela Mistral in the street, or sweet sonnets Rubén Darío. People move across quickly, and sometimes loose coins in amazement, stop: a young mother on a small cane workers, people look at me with a strange nostalgia.

Sometimes, however, I miss my home. While not believe it, I became a good carpenter. Built coffins for children and poets. Sometimes inscriptions made by hand. But, well, that was long ago, it seems that centuries have passed, moss-coated nails, when I hung that fucking cross.

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Lies

Lies, just lies there, not only of politicians, the storytellers of the souk, but on the people you admire, of yourself, of those that relief, provided that you their help in the past. Lies opulent as false scenarios of cardboard, wrapping it all, getting black screens on the roses in your memory. Lies just believing you, proud, quiet, reading the book lies in your own life without you noticing. Lies when you cry, when you travel, when you shiver, at the edge of the islands, inland sea in the background, when you break the vase, where persuade your friends what they say is true. Lies seductive, delicious, fertile, warm manure lies as painting the roof of your mouth. Lies in the desolate place of men, children starving, women who walk on stilettos. Lies in the churches and the walls, in cemeteries, on the lapel of the maps in the paradises that we built in the withered leaves of so much truth. Really, who wants the truth, I live my lies, as others do in the tail of a car, no name proscribed and down to sleep in empty stations. Someone up a stone and throws it in the middle of a forest lying is the stone that breaks up all of the branches and sleep forever in the riverbed.

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There was a time when, in the absence of swamps, I opened bars. I used to go with Iñaki, which had a fine network of informants, which allowed us to know exactly what kittens are brand new (including the location and time, as in drug delivery), so there appeared, eager, silent, ready to drink for free while the liver to resist. There were always welcome. On one occasion, the day before a fucking statistical review, we present ourselves in a cafe too smart and we look immediately aroused the suspicions of the hosts. Good education is supposed to prevent rich people that we expel down the stairs, thanks to which, despite the disapproving glances, we gave a good account of confectionery. Canapés, champagne, fruit glazed and fragrant. But the gods we had booked a punishment for our courage and the next day, amid the bloody statistics examination, I suffered, preceded by an attack of nausea, severe stomach pain. I passed by a girl handed me his sheet and the teacher Acha, which boasted an ironic infinite patience and allowed me to go to the bathroom at my pleading face. Sitting on the toilet I swore to myself that I would never leave me tempted by the golden calf, nor (as I imagined champagne swamps where sirens heinous corrupted the soul of drunken sailors) would re-open a fucking luxury cocktails.

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Bars and marshes Tripoli

and candor was not lust, or water clarity, there was not a single tree, the giraffes were gone, no one could hear the sound of the sails, had glaciers brown boxes without dreams, hotels empty bazaars as tombs, there were no words, only monologues, a bleak wind, not a single boat, not a single riot, exhausted gardens, islands in the shadows, ponds hungry, my mother could not hear, the songs of my mother, a terrible silence, a silence of termites, no pencils, no books, no birds, no violins, just a black fire, juice of slag, hollow domes, shirts piled dust in the temples, tapestries burned, a dog sleepwalker, debris, flies, ossuaries, covers ... and the moon reflected in a TV on. In the report, in a monotone, talking about the end of the world.

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I find John in one of those dirty and narrow streets that I come across from my childhood and, after recommending to convert voice Infinite Jest, Foster Wallace, it asks me to look at nails. Palm extend rather than replicate the finger and tells me that this is how women do or at least flirty women, leaving the air a sneaking suspicion on my manhood, I do not know if social or chromosome, but at this time , on an empty stomach, my hands just seek those white breasts that are pronounced in steel mesh and with tremulous fragility and an apple virgin wedding. I can imagine in the snow, a young woman riding rhythmically towards me, but on the street (the anonymous dead come walking from my childhood) are big women with plastic bags, brutalized by time, like those gray children who lose grace and candor in the shadow of the hospices. Men do not deserve a better fate than they have, but no God would allow women to lose their beauty, twenty years, it was ephemeral, not just a matter of aesthetic canon, or of poetic justice, but because under his eyes the world would be hell sweet, only one of the reasons why he deserves to live in a wild kingdom of heaven, with all of us wandering the streets (the sad streets of our childhood) and his tender bush lips.