She has not accepted ‘my solution’ yet. Another place I saw well, and my friend leopold friend’s son otto had given her and the toxin with recalcitrance, like women with a limp. And his chin was percussing her through not long after, when she opened her mouth in my throat and took me to the window, standing beside her as a large hall. Numerous still get pains, it’s in for her to do that. she probably had the syringe that I thought to myself with that extensive whitish grey had not been clean. “there’s no doubt it’s this sort ought not to be did, in spite of her infection, but no matter for the skin on her left type. in injections after all I must miss some organic trouble.” I stomached an abdomen is all I said to her. “if you thought to myself that preparation of propyl,i will be alarmed and looked at you.” the turbinal bones of her nose reproached her for not having knew what pains she got indicated. A portion of looked her down her throat, and found a big white patch. trimethylamin. (and I origin of the infection) examination confirmed she showed different signs from usual; looked quite an injection of a saw before the formula and clean-shaven dysentery will supervene. my direct awareness, too, for this heavy printing evidently modelled on her choking me. I was ( and I noticed this, too) just as he was. there was really no need to answer her letter and ,as though with artificial dentures. I had a dull area laid down properly and on the right my friend otto replied “if you only her bodice was saying ‘it really was only your fault.’ . ” given so thoughtlessly, he repeated the curly structures (which were receiving amongst all the paleness) as he walked dress. I said “I at once called in dr. propyls … propionic acid for irma. I at once took to her infiltrated shoulder. eliminated until only we were left.” he also was feeling unwell, my scabs upon me some remarkable guests, whom with I looked pale and puffy.
[Sigmund Freud; 1895. Irma’s injection.]
Louder. you never took your eyes us, all women. we were naked and even with everybody laughing and singing to her pistol, she would basket. the man wore a singlet and did not do kneebends. if one of did, the minute we did the next kneebend you were us. we had to sing as we marched, keep giving you orders, shouting at the pool. there were about twenty of did in a bad kneebend when you would shot but I couldn’t see it was you. you in the pool full of corpses. the ceiling in a man stood in the fall, dead in the pool, which made floating just below the surface at a large indoor swimming something wrong. you would shoot the broad-brimmed hat shading his face. you had to march around the pool. you are going to shoot me! there was a basket hanging from the end and I knew I lacked the strength to!
[Milan Kundera; The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Tereza’s dream.]
Some part of my mind boomed dusk-orange. We seemed to waltz into the door, and I would glimpse the stop with a sudden effort. Thrumming skin before the cloud of rooms and freely-swinging doors fled through halls like a spectre; one and even the after. And there, you palest sheen of sweat in someone’s fluorescent halls lived forever. I gave up on the glimmer of lights. Occasionally we seemed as resistible as any other, after an eon of sleepwalking. You lurched onto some balcony in the deep backstage. A huge, sonorous impossibility ate me open. And my ineradicable musk grew cold to your presence. But the impenetrable maze of dressing this huge backstage – this bare light – would dart from some slipping female sweet in the air, and as we walked I spied a whole limb, spritely as yesterday, or the day before that, or along the corridors where musk and chalk descended, where at times i gave up on stopping and my heart.
[I; 2014. The lemon dream.]