"Leon! if Charles learned! ... "
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renowned concert pianist, her children had to follow this route: such was his will. He had three son by his second wife, at a time when his career began to wane, where he spent more time in this great house of the 19th he had acquired on a whim, to thirty years, answering some parse chimera that point. His wife, younger, gave him his three children. It was quickly erased, but this transparent: it was for them a form of memory, even though she lived in these places. They never left the house, practicing the piano incessantly (and have been their 3 years), alternating with their courses and games in the park. Their father had great ambitions for them, and relying on competition to push them to excel. He thus showed severe, stingy with affection, reward her children in terms of their progress. The situation deteriorated, but no - his wife, the house staff, successive tutors - knew not stand up to him. The game stopped, children distrusted, hated and then without even realizing, protecting Yet when they were faced with the father he hated and revered. Thus the elder disappeared one day from home, leaving this note under his pillow: "I'm gone." Without even telling his brothers. Nothing seemingly changed in the organization of the house, although all were upset. The youngest, most talented, welcomes the start and dove into the study. His brother understood the first he was already too late for him: one morning they found his body in Lake teenager, he had little left to explain. The father had now withdrawn himself, leaving his youngest son on the way that he himself had written. Around age 18, he began a solo career, helped friends of his father. He understood immediately that it was alien to it. He had hoped to see his brother at his first concert. He returned to the big house, continuing to practice without hardly knowing why, except that it was clearly the only world he may now inhabit.
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Valere has little slept. Caro is still returned to the charge last night, surely the 808 e time. I want a child. He tried everything. I want a child. Nausea. I want a child. The apartment is too small. I want a child. On holiday in Madagascar. I want a child. The cost of diapers. I want a child. The evening drive-in restaurant lovers. I want a child. I not want kids! He left the apartment. I want no children. He did not wish good day my darling Caro. I want no children. He did not call for the day. I want no children. He will go boozing with colleagues after work. I want no children. Hermine He sees the window, naked, his enormous belly, he stops short, taped. Damn she has big breasts!
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She still found wonder how he wanted to crush it by the public humiliation by making him know with a sudden frontal what he said was within the intellectual failure in the words she had uttered to be as free and free of so obviously, so we could see the attitude he had had an empty drive destined for domination of a person harmless. It was higher, although it could quite agree, but what the excess is that it is superior, he had himself lowered down in such a moral smallness. It was sad that such a beautiful spirit was not down with better self and lucidity, it is so little that he does not end immediately that doing so was that show how it was indeed hermetic humor and low-income people in his way of showing the height difference that favored vis-à-vis the poor designated caller. Which produces the largest intelligence it is capable of seeing and following both his intellectual inferiority compared to him was obvious, until he melts in an instant by what his reaction betrayed the meanness and stupidity in his personality .
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It sharpens its words with a razor blade, sharpens his sentences, works his texts. It brings to life stories that are subsequently existence outside it, among "other" among its readers. Sparing of letters, it goes basically refers, sometimes more than it says, leaves one's imagination to fill its empty, it speaks to the intellect and the heart and if someone does not like too bad. She writes for fun and those of others with love and tenderness, with sorrow and melancholy sometimes. And sometimes, one of his readers grabs the arm, bold and shy at once, and said " I loved your words, your sentences, this world you create. Do not stop especially, continue. Your books inhabit my bookshelves and my bags, my moments of solitude in search of hope. Thank . "His player drops his arms, she does not know what to say other than an echo of thanks, but continues on his way inflated and thankful, ready to ignore the daunting fear of a blank page. Just a little ink and the rest follows.
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