Matlab Installation Plp 2007a

soul thrown to the factory .... Plumes ... lax loses'! A song in his throat slashed

do not know, give it straight for once these scribblers of the king, which is that we at least say what they think, not just the embassy of the ritual, the emperor messaggino impresario.
I say this because for once, the enthusiast, Anthony Pennacchio, it seems sincere.
Audite:


I will continue until 1978 - but later, up to 80, 81 - thought to be working for the revolution, the our factory was not the master, and that sooner or later we'd managed to build a new world of justice and brotherhood among all, without capitalist exploitation. I was still a "rival" - as they say - and ours was, in fact, a rival unionism. Become 'social' - and I also Togliatti and reformist - in 1981, when the factory goes into crisis and is likely to close. It is there - when the factory we had to manage ourselves, because to remain open and remain on the market - that we begin to deal with the compatibility of business and the market economy itself. What else could we do? Did the closing? Then it went how it went. It's all written in the novel. The factory remained open another thirty years. They have now closed in 2010. And if the fact of keeping it all together then you open one of the best memories of my life and satisfaction, the fact that they have closed now is one of the greatest pains. I - like every worker - I loved her all my fab tory, its departments, to machines. And sometimes, at night, I dream that I'm called to work. Sometimes I feel anxious, because I have to overcome once the trial period. But most times it is pure joy, because I'm with my friends, even those that are gone, and work on my machines, Maillefer 120, the torpedo, the Shaw, the cone. Sometimes even the glazing.


affaretto This made me remember the flash of a page of Bukowski who feels almost guilty of doing nothing all day, and has second thoughts, just that I have always been a slacker ... a-nothing ...
Buk knew - and in fact shortly after he says it - it's all the fault of the brain that are lavender Man: work, attachment, because ... 'A factory etc.. All bullshit, bullshit, which over time become hard cuticle. Orbe, nothing scary, if you have a nail clipper ... Bukowski had many.
Antony is rather naive, it gives a good shot to raise another plume of dust ... at most, nor bother to venture out of the mattress, let a few pen, or to wipe your eyes (burdened with one-eyed).
There is a whole fictional production factory that was lay down the tracks from the Communist Party italocchio. In the midst of that he too will have increased gazzetteria, red feather plume. But more than that he grew up in the ideological chanting anti-bourgeois and the bourgeois and megalomania of this work. Work. The machine. The whisper of death. The incinerator.
Switch that he does anything to earn a soup, keep the squalid little family complete. Steps, and of course the crooked luck ... s'avvolge as the wheel, the loop ... put out the paper ... but love the factory, a worker who loves the department ... I seem to be very little brain to deport the chicken, be colonized, to suffocate in a glass of water.
imagine what you must think of someone who is a writer and thinks these little things, impersonating frescacce for sweet wine, and should have (in theory) the custody of the lighthouse (no longer speak of ivory towers) and wins incensed awards you win at roulette ...
What you want to think? Nothing.