Toy 35mm Camera Cool Pop Cam

Thursday. 18 years of my father. Had to die Father's Day, in Valencia, on the Nit del Foc. So some die. There are those who make noise in life and you have to make noise in death. Lovely dinner with Miguel and Maria José. Laughter and good conversation. It's nice that some people are part of your environment. In the case of Alvaro still assert more robustly. Friday, the woman's case asesinadita. Are you Indian? Why do you say? No, nothing, I thought so. Isabel Ordaz cool. Lola Baldrich cool. Miguel Mihura cool. Corcuera and Llamas are cool no. Russel Crowe either. The Gin Tonic of Gintonize yes. Soraya is my erotic myth of the year, every day I have it clearer. Lopez Aguilar is smiling, caricatures and plays great guitar. The Japanese in front of Maria Guerrero also cool with mushroom tempura, beer Sapporo and Cristina to me. Whenever I remember as turbot Gunther Grass and I think I would smoke a pipe. A Zuro Mellor, the cholo of the shit that blood poured from the mouth, shaking it anywhere. I'm just rereading Christ versus Arizona. De Cela we like it. To me, most of Paul Auster. And now I'll see if I like Roberto Bolaño. I'm not Marc Jacobs, John Galliano am dressed as a bullfighter. A high rate, if it is conditioned by his work, is brutish. As a defense mechanism or as weak defenses. It is not clear, but to live surrounded by corpses of cows and smelling of ammonia may have some influence on the character of people. Or not. I any case I've put a mud mask and rosehip. And I've taken a photo. Saturday morning Thyssen. A highlight Van Eyck, Hopper, Magritte, Ponce de Leon and Gregorio Prieto. And the photographs of Bram Stoker's chair with no shade. Soir Pisco in Peru. I do not know if it's true but I have in my mind a fact about that syphilis was brought to Europe by English brushed flames. God's punishment, saying the verse. O punishment of Viracocha, or Inti. She is a bit SIESA. I spend a little graciosillo. But together we fall well. Or so he says. First Bank of the church of San Pedro el Viejo. Beethoven, cello and pianoforte. No son Martha Argerich y Gidon Kremer pero lo hacen de maravilla. El cellista a veinte centímetros de donde estoy sentado refleja en su cara lo que interpreta y es hermoso. Tengo que retomar el violín. En la pausa coincido con ellos fumando un pitillo en la puerta. No sabía que los cellistas fumaban, ni que las pianistas se sueltan el pelo y se ponen un abrigo para salir a la calle. No regalan ni un bis. Yo pensaba que iban a pedir al público alguna pieza y yo ya tenía pensado el adagio molto espressivo de la Fruhling del divino, pero se van sin bises. Tengo que tocar de nuevo el violín, insisto, y alquilar Azuqueca, pienso mientras esperamos si hay o no encore. Se me pasa con pimientos del padrón en la Cava Baja. Eterno retorno, otra vez Cela. Voy a doblar camisas, que me voy a Liverpool. Tomaré Landlords y cenaré mañana en Leeds en algún tailandés junto a los canales. He vuelto al gimnasio. Vivo deprisa. Es primavera.