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what he believes James Ballard
	I believe in the power that has the imagination to shape the world, to release the truth within us, to hunt at night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to propitiate the birds, to ensure the confidence of fools. I believe in my obsessions, in the beauty of the fighting drive, in the peace of the forests submerged in orgasms of deserted beaches, the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of the parking decks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels. I the ramps in use of Wake Island, pointing to the Pacific of our imagination. I in mysterious charm of Margaret Thatcher, in the curve of her nostrils and the sheen of his lower lip, the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; tormented in the smiles of the staff of petrol stations, in my dream that Margaret Thatcher is hugged by a young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel, watched by a tubercular filling station.
I believe in the beauty of all women, the treachery of their imaginations that touches my heart, the union of their bodies disillusioned with the illusory bars chrome of the counters of the supermarkets, in their warm tolerance for my perversions. I believe in the death of tomorrow nell'esaurirsi time, in our search for a new age in the smiles of the waitresses on the highway and the tired eyes of air traffic controllers at airports out of season. I in the genital organs of men and women in important positions in Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and beauty of Princess Diana, in the sweet odors emitted from their lips while the cameras set around the world. I into madness, the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the madness of flowers, preserved in the disease to the human race by astronauts Apollo. I nothing. I in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, De Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Dürer, Tanguy, Facteur Cheval, Watts Towers, Böcklin, Francis Bacon, and all the artists locked into invisible asylums of the planet. I the impossibility of existence, in the humor of mountains, in electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic. I in adolescent women, in their corruption of their own leg stances, in the purity of their bodies tangled in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.
I believe in flight, in the wing and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, the stone thrown by a child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives. I believe in the kindness of scalpel, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the solitude of the sun, the loquacity of the planets in our repetition, the universe and the boredom of the atom. I in the light emitted by televisions in the windows of department stores, in the messianic grids the radiator of automobiles on display, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs. I does not exist in the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of this. I in the disruption of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka. I in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, Fürerbunker of Berlin, of the launch pads of Wake Island. I believe in the body odors of Princess Diana. I over the next five minutes. I in the history of my feet. I think migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks. I anxiety, psychosis and despair. I in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds. I in the death of emotions and the triumph of the imagination. I in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza. I in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion. I in pain. I despair. I believe in all children. I maps, diagrams, codes, chess, puzzles, in flight schedules, reports of the airport. I all pretexts. all the reasons I think. I think all hallucinations. I believe in all the rage. I to all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions. I in mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the light of wisdom.

What Do The Colors Of Faith Mean

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Whether
impulse, whether it's something rude or sublime, or really the effect of the education of my parents, the truth is that if, curiosity compels me to seek information and interaction with my environment and other natural loved my neighborhood. Curiosity divine treasure.

Curiosity requires a lot of passion. It is a great motor.

And not save anything or anyone about this. There are only people who ignore it, they can not channel this power. Art is a great way, art in all its forms rather.

One of my special talents is my share of curious about certain things, yes, and people are almost the main thing curious about me. Not all course. Not everything about them, not anymore.

And I know, I understand, I want to pry into their worlds, I found few better ways to learn.

now comes in this way.

When my father gave me the book "The Prince", I dedicate me asking me to "never lose your sense of wonder" and no way to keep a sense of wonder than having the curiosity.
Whenever I hear: "Curiosity killed the cat" I remembered a cartoon of a cartoon I do not remember whether it was "Condorito" or "Mafalda" where the child had asked something, to hear the reply answered, "and that wanted to know the cat "?. I always thought that was the most logical to ask why in the world .... I wanted to know the cat? The curiosity killed or died of curiosity, or died for something? I wanted to know this cat? Ja! It amuses me to think of that cat.

What lies beyond the surface? Roots? Ideas? Feelings? Lies? Truths? win? Dreams? Cravings? Thoughts? There?

not all that goes some way to the surface? Above all people? Like everything in nature? Is growing in a plane can not see and always something happening on the surface?

depends on how you light the surface is as we see, depends on the angle. There are things they look better in bright light and there are things that are best in light of the candles or the moon.
hits
As light as the heavens change when there are no buildings that emanate light to the stars, as stars are the same in a sky without buildings, and others are not, if they look when there is no around artificial lights.

People also look under different lights. Our lights. People also change their light. Y denotes the surface they have under the skin. And I discovered that the best is like asking.


not know the cat I wanted, so if that's what I want to know. And just in case I ask, because I will not dying of curiosity, I live

curious

Luna Palacios

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!!!!!!..... and thank you, thank infinitely