Mortician Liscense For Fl

Thank you, Louise for me to get this text. I put in the puzzle of my blog:

"THE ART AND CRAFT

Getting become an instrument, in office, task.
THRESHOLD FRANCISCO
writer look in the mirror and think it is ink. Only then is there salvation: when you are what you breathe, when one is air and bronchus, throat and choking. Only then is life bright. Need to become sperm and skin wound. Also in the quake. And woe torn orgasms. Only well-being the office, the task-can be present, splashing the walls with ivy or sully the memory of our own.

The paper, ink, minutes. Left of nonsense, let the listener on the other side with your eyes, let's smile and applause. Be converted into dots to continue tomorrow and next year, and after his death. Proclaim at once the bug and will be rewarded. This so now I can state that I am both the writer and the written. The Bovary c'est moi, my leadership and my obedience. I support containing the voice and the illusion forged in the shadow of madness and wine. And I am, maybe just a word that fills the lungs and pride: a writer.

But now I'm here with no other choice but to blend in with the office and tool. I'm so industrious and laziness that crosses every line written, and text that sleeps in negligence. Because I am of the same skin and nail it the Song of Songs and the dark mineral build up my insides. Coal and poetry live in I do not like foam, but as a profession, such as opening hours, as necessary in stride way.

step Because I'm the heel and the ground behind it. I'm not nothing but ink poured, I'm just old and lonely this job. I desire, but desire to be the pen, and his wound. Because when I'm all that (the margin, ink, pastern, the number marking the order of the times and the glue that erased), when there is no distance between the root of my teeth and writing, I feel it's worth stay here, unhurried, even until death if you dare.

auction is useless word, the imposition of commercial criteria. I'm an ink shrinks and expands in a heartbeat. And I'm here to testify, with rigor only be if I'm writing. Write and breathe. I move and agonize. There's only word: the word portrait as stroke, sleep and stroke of orgasm and death as a stroke that makes sense of all strokes. Task, task, trade, profession.

Then the word is me. I am, I said, whip and back, inquisition and heresy. I am the voice crying and relief. I, a writer who shouts or silence as sweet kisses. The machine tool of my tunnel, my bridge, and the sticky boiling asphalt at noon. I

instrument, the office and the task. Nothing else matters. I do not care. "ALFONSO FERNÁNDEZ


BURGOS