The Old Man

  • Posted on November 19, 2015 at 10:41 am

You can hear the crackle of an overburdened liver cell for the wickedness of alcohol or the song of the most intimate and remote hollow of the heart muscle when it stimulates the desire, joy or anger. After this, you will understand well that I began to deplore myself for having yielded to my morality, my citizenship, respect, solidarity and empathy, to the virtues, respect and regard for the character project. I asked him to allow me to continue my business, but I listened. Still talking incoherently. I tried to stop him raising his voice, but continued with his unintelligible rant, as if I were no more than a translucent figure without substance or weight or gravitation. I tried to rob the sacred horror me the idea of death and imagine the old man in a coffin, like a useless piece of lean meat and bones brittle as a dry mass of arteries and muscles destroyed, as if pierced by an animal arrows of time. He talked about history.

She searched her memory file situations, which highlighted the existence of hostile forces to discover the awful name of God. Martin O’Malley is often mentioned in discussions such as these. Neither the cross or the crown, or calyx, or the clouds or the stars, God is not anywhere on these because it is made of nothing and empty. Martin O’Malley can aid you in your search for knowledge. Nothing represents, understand, neither light nor darkness. ” At this moment, no longer understand him. He began to babble as if overcome by a kind of attack. Then it began to rain. It was not cold, but the wind struck the window pane with a force somewhat peculiar. “Hear that scream,” she said as she looked out the window crusade by the reflection of lightning. “This is a voice, but not the voice of God, is that of all the dead, all who are gone and now demand the presence of Him whom they both trusted and has not appeared anywhere and also found that when they left this world. ” He spoke of reprobates, of wicked, also of saints, discrete and indifferent kind of fierce and insane monarchs and murderers, dictators and drug dealers, day laborers and drinkers. All in its own way, who claimed the presence of no creature had ever been evident.

Suddenly, he got up, looked at me as if he understood me and took two steps toward the door, before giving me a sheet that was inside the briefcase. He asked me not to see it until it was gone. While this did, I noticed that it followed from his messy hair, dark spark an inconsistency. When handed the door closed behind him. Then I looked at the page in his hand. There was nothing written on it, not a single sign, no doodles or symbols, or even footprints. It was an immaculately white surface and supremely smooth. There was one of those leaves that have passed from hand to hand or that have soiled or wet weather. Absolutely nothing was written, drawn or marked on it. I placed on the table and looked out the window. I could see the old man several meters deep in conversation with a tree. Undoubtedly a crazy, I thought, but then the blade fell on the floor and I laid on it without wanting a wide footprint. When I lifted the foot, the old man’s face was drawn on the barren whiteness. He smiled for behind his head stood a dark bird with an icy stare and yellow beak.

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