The days go faster and faster and the nights come earlier and earlier.

Beyond that, what is not at all aware of our frenetic career, of the need to get to more. Each one does not have a strict, immature sense in the face of the tanned calendar, which cannot escape the need. We act, however, as if we lived only once and lived a thousand. We give up learning to say no. Not more than a meeting, more work. Not more money, to be a member of one more partnership. Do you think our rejection would make us reject and relegate us? Do we always go with one helmet if it's not with the other, putting our hands on the most sauces, thinking it makes us more real?
If the mom in our house wore a apron. We didn't have too much of my mother, because she was my grandfather's sister. Well, we called mamatxi. And I wasn't very breastfed, because it was more than that. However, we didn't call the aprons, we called the aprons, we called the aprons.

That's what we called it, the abbreviator, a piece of fabric that stumbled across the body and had various pockets, ribbons, etc. It was of heavy fabric, of arid tissue, probably of linen. It was dark so that it did not appear dirty and often stitched to suit one's own needs.

Again they are fashionable among the hosteleros, and for my part, these hosteleros seem like people from Germinal.
However, it was a very practical tool. Throughout the day it fulfilled multiple functionalities. In the kitchen, as a substitute for the missing scarf, it served to drain its hands. At the time of picking up the arrollations, joined by two tips, it represented the zarea. From the rib pocket, at any time you could pull out the softened sweet Pie Qui Chante, both for a weeping child and to scare away a weakness, or perhaps to break black ideas. In rainy days, it was an umbrella to traverse the stream, put upside down.
Mamatxi wore it since the morning. If I'm not mistaken, I had before I sold the coffee, like to ignite the fire. He was carrying him on while he had server and operator functions. For all these reasons, I wasn't a apron, but I started. And don't tell me that this is not in the dictionary, because that's where it should be, because it's the time of condition, but sewing.

In this memory I have a gesture in which I remember how from a tenor I took off the board. Yes or yes. As it was not known depending on the time, or if it occurred from a number of tasks performed. He was sure to come to take away the tenor.

He first took the leash that would tie his neck on both sides and push it over his head, then decompose the knot that gave him the nuts, and thus liberate that body by the obstacle of the widest fabric that I made l.En silence, rise from the table and dig into the liver of the kitchen door from
a bad hook until the day after that in which he placed it. This gesture distinguishes work spaces and other things. So I started something like leisure. Read news, do accounts, dig neighborhoods, watch leaves grow out of the window, do little poets.

I write all of them and I want the nitxikis to let go and stick it. I think so. I think slow, now I'm still. And then, like everyone else, follow from one responsibility to another, as if everything is confusing, dark, as if everything is in the category of the fundamental. Everything like work and nothing out of it. Won't I learn from visions?