This is one of those times when you sit watching a blank screen, head of the same color as the screen that has ahead. I do not know if it's the boredom that causes me the arrival of December, or by an accumulation of feelings and nonsense, but I'm one of those times when you think it best to shut up.
If you have nothing concrete to say publishers should publish the column space blank, signed by the author, because the silence is also a form of opinion. This week would have been better to leave the column blank but the director sure I would be accused of sloth.
When the head is made a mess and the heart is a knot, another possibility would also publish a jumble of letters, reflecting a bit that awful feeling of helplessness and frustration something like this: rdb agidaw ckjicagmc oyebaqeb lcfbgugcqgj iqgica nj AGK dqonc ogidbamdqd mdwi iqs geqk manner UDW ebawmdba zebw aeb ld acaoodgd rdodv cvea ÓA taqeba and aag nefaqe oyhca rkcw deb or AECA ebaqeba wqfb gcicqol ea ba caqmda gqdbqueba to gmabbefeiex qqytuweh ineumog xk.
Although this seems a bit indecipherable, is lighter than a paragraph of any philosopher or less dense and more grateful sure to read any political discourse.
But back to the original topic, I wonder why writers do not enjoy the same license are painters or sculptors, which could expose a work-at once made in a hurry "with which to clipping critics and viewers wonder about leaving the galleries feel gross for not understanding the genius of the artist. In fact, many who make the review of those exhibits not only applaud the author's talent, but also seek some weird name to define its new evolutionary stage
Finally, if not obvious, I confess that today I felt encouragement to write, but I broke my silence to keep this appointment I have with readers, but serve to give me sticks to say so much nonsense.
If you have nothing concrete to say publishers should publish the column space blank, signed by the author, because the silence is also a form of opinion. This week would have been better to leave the column blank but the director sure I would be accused of sloth.
When the head is made a mess and the heart is a knot, another possibility would also publish a jumble of letters, reflecting a bit that awful feeling of helplessness and frustration something like this: rdb agidaw ckjicagmc oyebaqeb lcfbgugcqgj iqgica nj AGK dqonc ogidbamdqd mdwi iqs geqk manner UDW ebawmdba zebw aeb ld acaoodgd rdodv cvea ÓA taqeba and aag nefaqe oyhca rkcw deb or AECA ebaqeba wqfb gcicqol ea ba caqmda gqdbqueba to gmabbefeiex qqytuweh ineumog xk.
Although this seems a bit indecipherable, is lighter than a paragraph of any philosopher or less dense and more grateful sure to read any political discourse.
But back to the original topic, I wonder why writers do not enjoy the same license are painters or sculptors, which could expose a work-at once made in a hurry "with which to clipping critics and viewers wonder about leaving the galleries feel gross for not understanding the genius of the artist. In fact, many who make the review of those exhibits not only applaud the author's talent, but also seek some weird name to define its new evolutionary stage
Finally, if not obvious, I confess that today I felt encouragement to write, but I broke my silence to keep this appointment I have with readers, but serve to give me sticks to say so much nonsense.
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