Klinefelter Syndrome More Condition_symptoms

Interlude

This text is an excerpt from a manuscript in progress, it is subject to copyright, as far as the photographs. Thank you to respect that.

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I bite the moon, the sun will triple
drink water from the rain and eat the snow,
shall enjoy under the stars, get out of sleep
let me caress and shadow light

But the storm howl that I can not say
But lightning cry I can not say
Tear out the sky from where the call
an infant injured by the mother's body

But the blackbird replica as the monster of old,
threat of impalpable above the living
He tears turn silent too cruel
a silent child hiding under the real

I still yell
Because I dreamed of killing silence

"My name CL and write the vain. I write the vain and for this reason that I am a writer my whole being. Pores of my face to my internal organs, calling for the horror at times.

I'm a writer. Although

Sure, you do not believe me. Of course I am to you a caricature of a teenager in search of recognition, its beautiful liars crayons, draw a clumsy writing. When I read aloud my vocables colored, you feel terrible that I jet to the figure of French literature with a touch of arrogance and a few drops of provocation.

I invented the horror of an empty truth and you look at me as if I frightened you. As if after you have read the deadly collapse of my text, I would be taking a hysterical laugh and disturb your conscience rested by the beautiful.

But me, I write the vain. "

First she had grabbed his finest pen, it's true. She was in elementary school and was looking for beautiful too. The sublime. The teacher told them: "This man writes beautifully " when speaking of Antoine de Saint-Exupery after reading the little prince.

soon back in his room looking like a fantasy realm, she had entered its most beautiful pen and wrote his most beautiful writing a history of devouring wolf and seducer grandfather. She waited to tell her: " This girl writes beautifully .

is where it all began. True, she wanted to write the beautiful and treat his readers with a magic and an elegant writing all round. She wrote poems, taking care not to obliterate his white sheet, repeating constantly in search of perfection.

Then there was the blues in his head. There was his approach became febrile. There have been fantasy killers. There was the fear that gripped her stomach and dry mouth. There were the knees of the unknown and virgin ass. There have been maybe and if. The words spoken, sweet words. And those who remained in balance over his noggin child silent. Those trying to catch it by flying over the living. But there was her angel wings stolen by one who also had bruises to the head.

She kept her colored pencils against it trying to turn the blue to red, shot his curly hair to drive away the fear, has blackened frantically washed her knees to remove the shadow, washed his ass hard , jumped high to learn to fly. But it fell to the speed of a wounded bird, bruising his whole body with sores viscous.

It did not work. The escape was futile.

But in its race to the bare asphalt, something strange and magical happened. In its flight towards the burning asphalt of this afternoon there, his eyes closed is very hard to reopen tan. The gaze of the child had gone to other lands, leaving her survival by forgetfulness.

It did not work. But the unbearable reality disappeared.

Then she continued to write, keeping her against her crayons. His book changed and became intimate. She began writing the vain. She began her writing in the secret souls awake.

writer suddenly had closed the shutters of his kid's room and had exchanged with himself, laughing and crying at the time because nobody seemed to have understood that no good if it was a lie and betrayal of children.

course, the writer would have liked to sing the middle child of a wheat field and do the little prince meets a stray. Of course, the writer would have liked to continue to fly and flap their wings to make his family happy. But the writer knew.

It was too late. His approach was too uncertain to run through fields of wheat-colored sun. The writer knew and had a heavy load of work to do: write this vain there.

writer is entirely within itself. The words that follow this path random internal motions of his body travel. They mingle in it, or maybe she is confused by them. She does not know. She does not remember, actually.

She knows only that they have entered his head after the final fall of the little girl. Then they have ceased pounding his skull, sometimes gently, sometimes with vehemence and brutality. Words have the power as they give meaning to the worst violence, the sweetest hugs. They transform the rage in delicate kisses. She accepted their power in his head.

is why she is a writer. It is for reasons other than the merger between his body and past ills.

She kept laughing as time spent, time that belongs to others and with whom she juggles to spread its black ink pen on sheets white. She has continued to tell past years to control the presence of being inalienable. Of his being. She has stopped dancing with words to ignore the dark and empty laughter hysteria.

She never stopped inventing obscure reasons for the survival of its insidious biological body, singing the evils of inclusion to protect his narcissism devastating.

Her name is CL and writer. She sank the words until exhaustion, until it encounters the void. Maybe she wanted to clear his body of words to be sold whole, to the passage of time in exchange for a face down to hers.

Maybe she would agree to sell its bloody eternity to look greedy and avaricious.

Whatever.

His ticket to life has been lying useless. She has written lies concealed by asserting that it rejects. She has given birth to her guilt by condemning what it is.

It will attempt to understand the unthinkable. Awareness of this dark time in which men and women reproduce, fantasize and hate. Awareness of life. And perhaps death. Who knows.

She is twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of failed humor in an outburst of truth. Twenty-five years of low reflections on the legitimacy of each other, the living. Twenty-five years searching for the reason that drives them while she develops a fierce sexuality tinged completeness and lethal impulses.

It is only because the writer overcame empty its ability to interact with the outside world. What if a writer who revels in a narcissistic self-satisfaction, fleeing the curious hands and words of others?

What a writer but he who communicates only shreds its egocentric person, inventing an imaginary audience who applauded for reviving the non-existent?

What a writer but he who feeds on itself and builds its own laws by inventing stories?