How To Lower Hematocrit

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E 'today, this very day, at this very moment, that everything is clear to me.

Silence, the silence around the faces, at parties, the heads, the true vision of the imperfect world of things, now has a meaning, a light.

Here comes the Christmas spirit early, all lights and melodies and it seems so easy to give. In the absence of affection, an atmosphere like this, can do together. At home, now, the darkness. And the Christmas tree, and the red and gold on, then dark again. Walking in the warmth of the rooms, so bare feet, the belt of her gown that touches the ground, his face pale, his mouth in the morning, without color, without even a trace of taint in the immensity of silence. That 's what I love, that's what they are. I look around, in a house that I live every day, a house now, I seem to see for the first time. I think in the face of steep cliff which I have found over these long years, happy and crazy in the rush and terror of time, this time the enemy to me, to live a life of my unconsciousness or a life made up. A life still possedduta and heartfelt, a life of sorrow, a life where dreams see me alone, life captured.

From the windows, the golden reflection of the lights on and off, my face, peaceful, my mouth smiling. With her eyes closed in the kitchen, now I just want a sweet taste. The fire dazzles me, decided on a serpentine beauty, that warms me to drink. It 's a wonderful time and stuffy and I prepare something for only me and I could live a lifetime of these gestures.

The sky outside is getting darker for a few seconds, the lights of the houses cold, distant, dazzle me, among the sounds of the bells I find myself, I'm still here, inside my home, I'm still here, I refuge. So to recognize the degree of happiness, remember that on a Sunday, if the emotion does not deceive me.

I love the sound of the silver spoon in the cup, while stirring sugar in tea, I love the sound of my plush robes touching Incatu furniture that step, I love the sound of paper in his hands, and flip through the pages of books, drunk joy, drenched in tears. Terribly happy. Terribly. No Happiness has the sound of a harp. Happiness is a "one" at random, is the "one" of an index of nearly a piano.

slowly explodes my happiness, I drink slowly and wait for it to end. I think, honestly, who would be able to understand it, even if I know the outline shape. I think in the end, what remains? -. Wipe your face, draw the mouth, staggering, it is still in the world who welcomed me, manipulated, bunt.

few remaining of this happiness, Serber, maybe I'll give a little in a letter, but his best is here, inside me, the absolute truth of this strange happiness in this small point of light where I feel only the echo of man I love, still here, barefoot, still here, hair down, even here, her head resting against the wall, even here, the cold of the door, while I feel that leaves me flat.

without complaining, just beyond the threshold, just outside of that light within the darkness and silence, far from everything, but with a hint of that wonderful changing happiness.