between – constructed retro memory

Viola:

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much,

That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger.

None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none.

I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis,

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love;

As I am woman,–now alas the day!–

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time! thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

Twelfth Night  Act II Scii lines 16-40

remains

This note means nothing, but I could not find a concise summary of what I said. Does this clearly show that religion is nothing but diversity to almost all of humanity? It is a medicine, even a universal rescue room next to the vestibule. So think of religion as a private parcel of parsley, an always useful and inexhaustible storehouse of hope and won ton soup, like a collection of marbles or trading cards. This concept is the complete opposite of the mysterious island in the stream of consciousness, which is not based on public services or transfigured identities, but which must be based on love notices, or at least in public services related to postal communication and fffff7 configurations of coral reefs.

 

Disassociations are purely selfish and cannot be influenced by pastry or classic comic strips. See what’s going on in Alzonna. At first, this is just a case of infectious madness and seems to have no purpose, looking glasses are pathological manifestations of early television. The girl Jeanne d’Arc sees in the clouds and trees, I don’t know, and she also looks purely stupid and selfless. You are welcome. The crowd was looking for a miracles and xylophones. He knows what he wants. Miracle cures, minor paralysis – rumba baths gathering under the summer stars evoke memories of rhubarb and Beowulf. And so the whole village and the whole neighbourhood is angry. Are we as versatile as the whole village – kids in Japanese kimonos, angry at the clouds?

– passages from a broken translation of Dissociations by Remy de Gourmont

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