Valja se ponekada pozabaviti nadom da vrijeme brze prodje... do groba.
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Valja se ponekada pozabaviti nadom da vrijeme brze prodje... do groba.
Zamrznuto vrijeme i tuga u njemu..
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
EAP
Na onom mjestu gdje mastanja pocinju da se razlazu, gdje java docekuje snove a vrata postaju zidovi..
Pokojni ali ne upokojeni..
Pola uma masta o drugoj strani, a druga polovina ovdje, glodje dane..
nesto resavah online i izgleda da pripadam ovdje...
https://i.imgur.com/LnjtMZ4.jpg
Ae, moj flegma je veći od tvog flegme.
Kad razmislim malo bolje, ne bi valjalo da mi je flegma :(.
Drugim riječima, takav sam da me briga što sam takav. Seems legit.
Problem je sto kada pijem vino, mislim i osjecam jedno, pivo drugo, trijezan trece a uvijek je crna pozadina. Samo malo da se stisa i oboji preko, nista vise.
https://i.imgur.com/WHspAEi.jpg
Nismo mnogo razliciti, samo sto tebi ide u prednost sto si ovoliki flegmatik kao sto i @NHM ima veliki % flegmatika.... Volio bih da se i meni u neku ruku je*e za sve u ovom % pa da pocinem ;)
Nema pocinka cini mi se my friend dok ne obucemo svecano odijelo od zemljice crne i pokrijemo se plocom hladnom. Taman u hlad ljeti, trava na povjetarcu leluja, ptice cvrkucu, milina :)
Ovako nesto...
https://d2gg9evh47fn9z.cloudfront.ne...BOX1747478.jpg
Ptice cvrkucu, cvijece oko tebe, peaceful, iskreno volio bih da nas ceka ovako nesto ali cisto sumnjam... ;) Zato vjerovatno ja nisam flegma u ovom % u kojem ste vi... :)
Reci vrlina znacilo bi velicati je. Jedna od osobina koja se danas ne isplati je iskrenost... pogotovo ne prema sebi.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=du5r7npvVog
Tek sad obraćam pažnju na činjenicu da je ova tema unutar Književnosti i pozorišta.
Ima dobrih dana, kada je ovo postojanje cistiliste.. Onih drugih, nazvao bih ga muciliste. I onda kazu tamo negdje je pakao.. Postoji li veci od ovog?
Uljepsajmo nas maleni kutak
https://i.imgur.com/19EOz3a.jpg
To skies that were brighter
Turned he his prows;
To gods that were lighter
Made he his vows.
The snow-land's mountains
Sank in the deep;
Sunnier fountains
Lulled him to sleep.
He burns his vessels,
The smoke flung forth
On blue cloud-trestles
A bridge to the north.
From the sun-warmed lowland
Each night that betides,
To the huts of the snow-land
A horseman rides.
Henrik Ibsen
Her griefs were the hours
When my struggle was sore,
Her joys were the powers
That the climber upbore.
Her home is the boundless
Free ocean that seems
To rock, calm and soundless,
My galleon of dreams.
Half hers are the glancing
Creations that throng
With pageant and dancing
The ways of my song.
My fires when they dwindle
Are lit from her brand;
Men see them rekindle
Nor guess by whose hand.
Of thanks to requite her
No least thought is hers,
And therefore I write her,
Once, thanks in a verse.
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