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.