Boss St-2 Metallica Tone

Italy beyond the crisis?

The phase constituent of the Democratic Party ended in June (it is not easy to make a party and it shows the sad end of the PDL) with the election of the Secretaries of the Club. Even at Sandhurst members met at the PD and elected provincial bodies and the Circle of our Party. The new Provincial Secretary Federico Ginato the provincial assembly and the delegates of our communities are: Giovanna Bogoni, Antonio Vivaldi and Anna Rodighiero. With the renewal of the Board was dissolved the old Circle Bressanvido, Pozzoleone and Sandhurst. This is thanks to contributions from everyone, but especially the former coordinator Henry Balasso, grew well and is rooted in our territory so that even the two small towns close to us have decided to start a new club.
Italy is going through a tough period due to the difficult economic crisis that is claiming so many jobs and too many companies in our province. But not only. E 'in place in our country, some years ago, an upheaval that affects the whole system of the country. Health care, education, justice and institutions. This is because you have made no reforms needed to modernize and make more rational services, public administration and employment. The current majority despite all the claims made there has never Once the hand. Since the beginning of this term, while hundreds of thousands of workers protesting their fears and their problems in many cities of the peninsula, the political debate has always been focused on laws that are intended to help policy makers and the powerful to escape justice. Lodo Alfano, such failure, short process (indeed, better, short limitation), gag law. And then the tax shield that allowed the Mafia to launder money, resulting for example from the drugs trade, with greater ease. Not to mention what has been called school reform that actually brought in less than € 8 billion (16,000 billion old lire) to increase public school Instead, funding for private schools. And the milk quota? Who said the farmers before the election we all settle in Europe, we will listen, knowing that this was impossible?
immigration, globalization, economic crisis, innovation, pollution. How can you think to solve the challenges of the future by hiding in their own national borders, regional or even local, screaming, or showing the middle finger to the problems in order to feel stronger? How can you think to solve an economic crisis like this with the same patterns of all time? How can you think of reviving the future of our country on one coupon which took forward the man throughout his history? The image that Italy is now giving of herself is that of a country locked by a few powerful interests, an old country that does not invest in culture, research and innovation, a closed country that is afraid of diversity and the future. In short, a country that starts to slowly decline and social morality.
But all is not lost. The challenges presented to us in the future must be addressed! We must eliminate all those strings and wires that curb those who want to do business in our country without restricting the rights of workers. We need to focus strongly on technological innovation, research and education to make our country more competitive. We have to give way to a new economic development that is respectful of our environment. We need to reform the justice because it is faster and fairer. We need to reform the tax system to shift the burden to income from work and by the backlog and to income from capital.
I accepted the role of Secretary because he was convinced that the Democratic Party is a party rooted in the territory and recognizes the role of all, a party that has in it so many people trying to give strength to the demands and needs of the people, but especially that is the only party able to build an alternative that gives a future to this country.
Main proposals of the PD I invite you to visit www.partitodemocratico.it.
Wishing you a good return from their summer holidays. Marco Cason

PD Sandhurst Circle Secretary

Much Does Highlights Cost

thin lips move swaying on her face pale, contrasting with the tan just mentioned the tired body. embarrassed voice trembles and the latter take the form of a gray was geology. the sorcerer gives his verdict from the hills like corn yellow and red fields of poppies as cut off. authorizes the skin making it look like the scarecrow of straw a cat afraid. the birds are raised in majestic flight, explaining the long wings meters and meters and darkening the sky angry. Girgia ash raining and the wind uncover their heads showing pink brains of animals supplied with blood.

someone is bent to spew hatred between curses and cries of the sorcerer who reach the speed of Supersonic. swords and shields as you hit them on the helmets and armor plates on which ignite burning the incredulous eyes of the weakest. the fire of ambition crackles while whispering prayers and sweaty beasts sleepy voice. Sorcerer arms full of bells and chimes and bells frantic move by dropping to the ground a million - no! - A billion ringing. roll and tumble down the hill as blue as the purest cobalt mines in the north. children took refuge under the park's rides rusty dirty his hands and knees in mud.

the Warriors can not wait any longer and come out at dusk, compact, and as legions of missionaries, animated by faith in the youth spent singing hymns to destroy livers and lungs and pancreas and kidneys. sing melancholy as the first love leave and kiss their wives and mistresses as if they were to die today. but the wizard has spoken: no one has the sword of Damocles hanging over his brains. old, whose eyes see spots of color now yellowed by time and pain, sewing wedding dresses for their daughters. are as beautiful as the diamonds cut from the Dutch master, adorned with lace, some with bored puff that rest on top of each other. the wire passes between tissues as if memory of the route to follow, crosses and hidden, sometimes quickly and quietly as the cat on the trail of the prey, others as a clumsy obese in a china shop of leprechauns in Ireland.

horn draws the suitors on the battlefield. Scarecrow crosses his eyes and turn up their nose. the drapes of cloth hanging from the filthy clothes waving flags as multicolored, one for each race in the nation. sings a requiem for the fallen in the battle of the big mountains. know that lie enshrined in the snow and icy paths chills as punishment for their alleged arrogance. a peasant farmer can not fight except with picks and shovels riding donkeys that bray and sold for half a carrot.

the sorcerer makes a pot of boiling water pure gold with large handles that hang from the hips. wood piles, more and more disposable clothes, books on religion and politics, shins of dead bodies, stolen from femurs ossuaries all over the world. Pometti love poems and burns, burns the words of the sages who have sung the beauty of the stars of the evening of August and the sweetness of the song of cicadas. burning pictures of the great academic releasing figures immortalized in the paintings. burn time and oil paints, batteries, rusted trucks traveling on highways of the future from town to town, burning the miles traveled by avid travelers with their tents and their sleeping bags. burns the travelers themselves who have succumbed to the tired litany of god Orpheus. gives fire to the myths of men and orcs, the nomadic circus trapezes and steel bars of cages, all the locks of the gates of the southern plains.

in ecstasy of the destroyer dig a deep pit with bare hands as hell, dirty fingernails of land. you bury the funeral of pagan religions, honoring him with a tear that turns into a river of hope. puts his hand into his pocket and with a gesture worthy of the most theatrical magician pulls out a flute of ebony, which leads to the lips as the diaphragm expands.

plays a blues tune and the flames begin to dance to the rhythm of the melancholic melody. the expanse of grass and rainbows become intense indigo faded as a sprouting bean plants and gradually take Mexican color. the wizard it grabs one by the tail and it stings like a stringed instrument. is the time to Latin American dance! the aborigines of the islands of the launch monsoon shields and spears leave poisoned made gentle as rattlesnakes. Vikings of the peninsula of polar bears raise the jugs of cider and drained them in one gulp. no one should die, not today.

the wizard fills the hole with hot water to bathe. swims to the bottom, like a dolphin in the Indian Ocean, and emerges a little later, dressed in a black tailor-made leather shoes and python, with sharp a knife bought at a flea market. the sorcerer became a magician. Holiday season continues and alcohol grass, sounds and noises. nobody died, at least not today. the sorcerer sits down and leans back on the pile of hot coals.

"what it means to dream?" - Asks me as he lights a cigarette.

"dream is to play on a rainbow-colored hills indigo." - I answer.

"take ..." - And hands me the package.

Genital Warts Mouth Hurt

I always wondered how it would travel the world in the belly of a whale: being swallowed by a giant whale - a humpback whale, for example - and sail the seas to make playing the pirate. must be the desire to start playing some trick the brain under pressure, and mixes reality and fantasy as an alchemist of other, distant times.

and dream of being the terror of the seven seas, I walk barefoot on the grass freshly cut, a living oxymoron. on the way the itching wakes ends accustomed to comfortable rubber soles, attracting hungry primitive instincts. it's like a face wild themselves emerging from nowhere, a subliminal message imprinted genes corrupted by home comforts.

lying motionless, feeling the sun burn the skin and turn it off the air before a fire broke out. a water spray catches me by surprise, sassy, \u200b\u200brefreshing for a moment my lucid blurred. the birch trees shook like a rattle in the wind chimes spring, summer is a slow symphony.

droplets of water adorning the bottle that rests under the umbrella. makes me fear rises as enormous and austere, but its pendant distracted somehow reassures me. I am convinced for a moment to feel the scent of the sea, the scent of suntan lotion, sand, salt and golden skin whispering summer every time you breathe.

abandoned flip-flops on top of each other, lay the towel with a few ripples here and there and raised the hem, the empty chairs in front of the small plastic table unused. I sit on the swing and red rocking chair, thinking that here is changing a po'tutto.

I think of evenings spent eating pebbles of porphyry and asphalt constantly changing person, jumping from place to place to look for some new, imagination of a child wrongly beat extinct. I think of dancing and laughter that met the sadistic and exaggerated comments, made without malice to forget the day we left behind.

I think about leaving. I guess the skyscrapers, and as a giant concrete and glass looking down upon us, ready to be demolished by the flash cameras of tourists overzealous and greedy memories. being dragged by a river of people on the night full of neon signs in search of some district naive to rest tired legs and chatting with some stranger. meter races while engrossed in searching for a match between the name of the stop and gifts from a point on the map information. navigate the streets in search of a more unusual refreshment berth for the hungry mouths and eager for exotic flavors, or at least quite foreign to the taste common to seem sophisticated.

take the bandage to cover a black eye, a black bandana with skulls embroidered becomes a precious necklace, the plastic sword is stuck in the waistband of his baggy pants and worn. load some food on the boat, a fishing net, a picture not to feel nostalgia, hoping that something in the way he want me to be hungry enough to eat.

while leaving for this trip I realized that improvised the desire for adventure continues to play with irreverent fancy childhood fantasies. the sun still burn my milky skin, showing no respect, while lying on a towel choppy.

I really wonder how it would travel the world in the belly of a whale ...

Short Heavy Period Pregnant

not remember much about that day. just a lot of noise, his hands still over his ears while the body writhed screaming. I remember the tears come down and soak the shoes. I do not remember the color of your hair, your smell in the air condensed around.

shook his head from side to side. I repeated that everything was going the right way. I looked at the statues and buildings that populated the place alive and vociava chaotic. I tried to reassure me that the time required courage and the pain would take him off the living him, carrying on his shoulders.

remember inattention and misunderstanding, take their separate ways. I remember the train leaving while I sat on the marble bench in the station. a lighted cigarette and the sun shone all morning that the open space. the boy next to me was playing alone with a small red Ferrari, the paint peeling off. Zigzagged on the gray tile design porphyry trivial.

thought I had already lived for life made me jump and look ahead. I thought I had released everything from appearance that blurred. I thought I would see the color of the flowers in all its subtle nuances and subtle.

not remember the day I was never good with dates. must be winter because the cold enveloped everything. the green coat was not enough to retain the heat and chills took over. I order one of the drawers of memory and the euphoria of new adventure re-established balance between the thoughts.

the child was still absorbed in his imagination was strange onomatopoeic puffs with parted lips. I looked preoccupied trying to figure out what he was combining his childhood innocence.

suddenly slammed his hands on the ground, his face sullen. something must have gone wrong in his little world. the car was upside down. must be something important. we crossed eyes: eyes mirrored the violent and fiery as irises changed color. I held the cigarette between his fingers red and frost had gone. the smell of smoke rushing sull'olfatto with a subtle malice. the shadows we preparing for war tribal drawing pictures on our faces.

looking for the meaning of all because I wanted to understand everything. I read between the lines of the story because I found the plot boring in our lives. I argued with the craziest speakers to claim the thrill of contention.

not remember much that day, if not the chaos that swirled in my every word, every expression on my face, in all my certainty.

we looked into the evening, green in green reflection. we were so alike that we looked like strangers to each other. I remember the yellow porphyry; hunger attack the stomach with a tenacious grip, as if he had not eaten for months. I remember my baby cry, cry like I had never heard before. I remember the toy dropped as it never existed. looked shabby and tired. the wounds of years had abbruttito so much, that will hardly recognize the brilliance he had at birth.

"are you sad?" - I asked politely. the crying stopped instantly cryptic. hesitated to answer.

"no, I'm not" - he told me.

"why the tears then? Are alone?"

"no, not '

looked at me long. looked at me trying not to explode in anger against me.

"I cry because you're sad" - he set out at the end a silence broken only by the trains that were running on rails rusty.

"Want to play?" - It was dark.

was the last thing I remember. I never responded. I lit another cigarette. another, while I was waiting for something to happen. but there were only people who came and went, and trains that roared and flashed colorful graffiti done with spray cans. was a whole new world, though still the same.

the child was gone. I had not even greeted. I got up stretching the bones creaked under the weight of my body, sore muscles fatigue is reactivated.

I walked towards the city, with a slow pace. the lights on the windows made it seem so many fireflies small buildings, as if I were lying in a meadow in the summer. I stopped a moment, my breath froze on every breath, illuminated by the light of sodium lamps.

"why not?" - I have said before heading off again, while holding his hand in his pocket a small red car with the paint peeling off.