Whats A Good Bra Size?

The history of the white wolf in the attic

The silence of the night was ripped apart mercilessly by an acute complaint.

In the depths of the forest, the darkness was absolute.
The sky was just a dark spot, lined with branches reaching like claws ready to grab any unsuspecting prey.
An evil wind lifted the fallen leaves in unexpected swirls and then run away rattled through the trees withered by the cold winter.
Suddenly, a howl.
could not be mistaken.
It was the vibrant voice of a wolf.
A howl. Still a
.
again, but closer.
Closer ...

Lily lying on the lawn, was motionless, inert.
In the rustle of the wind fierce, struggle hard to distinguish the predator lurking stealthily.
listened and trembled.
unarmed.

The wolf was there. White hair and eyes glowing. And great teeth.
Lily, terrified, was unable to move. Almost
was no longer able even to breathe.
saw the eyes of embers of the wolf in his mirror.
sighed weakly and prayed that everything would end soon ...

Ah, if the Alibre
flutter again ... If only you had given me a life ... a story


The wolf approached its toothed jaws to face Lily.
And, without hesitation or regrets, licked his cheek.
Then he lay waiting for her to re-open your eyes ...

Lily, surprised to be still alive, not knowing how to behave, pretended to be dead anyway.
The wolf waited patiently.
Lily opened just one eye.
The wolf smiled.

Basically it was just an old white wolf.
who loved telling stories. For
not feel too lonely.

A voice that Lily had never felt so close, the Wolf. Lily including the words in the sound of howling and what others would do the creepy warmed, however, the heart. But before listening to the wolf looked at him and said nothing, about to begin, to prevent them from losing even a word of his story. He observed that the whiskers were light silk in the moonlight, now that Lily knew what was the silk could make comparisons. And the white hair that framed her face as if nothing else imaginable could be equally worthy. Lily would never say that it was old. But that was just as she, yes, that could understand the immediacy. Because the wolf had not eaten, just as she expected him to do. Because there is only one thing stronger than hunger, and the need the company of 'qualcunoqualsiasi' when loneliness is more serious than the body weight. And there's no meal that they can refresh a desolate heart. Fatigue and boredom or talk or I'll choke. Maybe that's why the wolf would tell stories? Surely this Lily began to listen. To feed the wolf of his attention.

C'era una steppa imbellita dal gelo. Perché nel gelo brillava della luce dei cristalli. Mai nessuno si era avventurato con passi scricchiolanti a disturbare il suo manto. Su di lei correvano soltanto il cielo e le stagioni. Correvano sembrando immobili. Correvano perché il cielo e le stagioni corrono ovunque, trainati dal tempo che nessuno può domare. Neppure i lupi passavano attraverso quella steppa. Perché i lupi ne avevano il rispetto che si deve ai luoghi sacri. E anche i lupi, come tutte le altre specie che non vi si erano mai avventurate, ne avevano un po' timore.
Quella steppa si diceva fosse la dimora dell'Inverno e del sonno della Natura. Per questo neppure un lupo aveva mai avuto l'ardire di ululare nelle sue vicinanze. Perché non si può forzare la Natura al risveglio quando la Natura decide che è il momento di riposare. E soltanto il vento, il vento operaio del tempo, occupato a spingere il cielo e a consumare tutte le cose, avrebbe potuto raccontare cosa c'era oltre la steppa. E forse se anche noi
potremmo provare a indovinarlo è perché respirando ci nutriamo della sua aria. Forse, così, qualcosa del vento resta in noi, come un seme della sua conoscenza delle cose .
Perché sappiamo che accanto alla dimora dell'Inverno sorge il giardino della Primavera, dove tutto quello che dormiva si risveglia. Un ritorno alla vita, attraverso il sonno. Una morte apparente che ristora la forza di ogni nature. And each has a natural cycle, a magic circle to go. And the wolves would never have walked on the circle, which matured in the summer to blow up, and scattering the ashes of the leaves are eaten in the fall. Because the wolves had respect for sacred places. It sniffed the presence of the invisible circle, because the wolves breathe the wind.

Lily surprise again felt the heat in his veins. It was the heat of the breath of the wolf to have it saved. Was it the story had told her. It was the certainty that he would return to her, though now he could clearly make out only the tail. As he was going.

And which of you will return by Lily to tell a story?

few hours after sending this post. My pack has a wolf less. The chill has settled on every word that I can not say. To write, either.
Silence. Silence.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ....

How To Get Points Taken Off Your License In Ohio

On the lawn there was already a crowd of spiders around Lily. Pats multiples of eight legs. To push the blood that the heart does not pump more nearly. In a growing pale as the Moon appears and remains in the sky all night, getting bigger and brighter as the darkness deepens around. The Alibre motionless, her eyes but still had life, inspecting the sky in search of the arrival of a bat. It came off the bat, the wings like a black cloak blown by the wind.
The bat was still a story for Lily. What the spiders did not hear, because the spiders can not hear ultrasound.
But Lily, paralysis, had heightened the sense of hearing, pain survival stories that only they could give her.
And the story began to resonate around the bat. It sounded just for her. The rest of the world would say that there was still silence.

There was an attic covered with dust from the very floorboards. If someone had entered would laciato footprint every step, but they were many years that no one went in and looked in the attic still even dust. Nothing changed in there for years, if not the light that came through the small window in the wall opposite the door. During the day, when the sun was out, the rays that came from moving a cone beam forced over the design of a small rug. Rosebuds waiting to bloom in the spring. Small birds plumage indigo expecting the heat to blend the wings and get rid of dust in a carousel of short flights. This was under the rays of the sun entered the window. This was the secret of the attic. And to this day the attic smelled of roses. And that is why the air seemed to echo the song of exotic birds. Maybe that's why nobody came in for years, because everything was locked in the attic seemed a curse. But it was a miracle. And when the sun set and the window came in the moonlight, the buds are closed and small birds returning property, with his head under his wing. The indigo was dying in the black of night. Roses took the color of dust. But peace remained in the air, the peace of a world rests.
A world that had not the courage of curiosity than out of the attic. The wonder of the discovery of a miracle is a gift that must be earned. Challenging timori razionali che si arrendono all'inconsueto, forse nella speranza che la polvere possa fargli da tomba. Ma la vita è prepotente e ha infinite nature. E quella del mondo fuori dalla soffitta era una natura domata, artificiale nei ritmi e nelle funzioni. Mentre nella soffitta regnava la libertà e la meraviglia. Nella soffitta, se qualcuno fosse entrato avrebbe lasciato soltanto qualche orma nella polvere. Mentre, fuori, la polvere faceva da tomba al mondo.

Lily fece un grosso respiro, forse un sospiro. I ragni si allontanarono veloci, come in fuga dal vortice di un tornado. I polmoni di Lily si riempirono dell'aria dei giardini nel mese di Maggio. Ma l'Alibro non frullò le sue pagine come fossero ali, in una giostra of short flights. If the Alibre was a small bird, it could be said that still held his head under his wing. In the silence that followed the end of the story of the bat. In the silence of sleep the rest of the world. While two black wings fled away under the sky of asphalt, as the mantle of someone who turned his back, goes away in a hurry.


The silence of the tomb of the world is Lily ... Do you go out for a story from the dust ...