Onkyo Receiver Shuts Off On Its Own

Survivors

me is easier scrivere.Vivere is something else, and is much more difficult. So how easy it is to walk continuously on their own and others' illusions or disappointments. Do not get me wrong: I love life, I feel the flow every day, second, I like to walk barefoot on wet moss possible without interior conflicts. I still want to revisit the 32 counties of Ireland with a backpack on his shoulder as when I read William Yeats Butle r to Drumcliff, County Sligo, in the west. I already imagine the peat and the colors of winter and the sea of \u200b\u200bLimerick full of stories that have accompanied the emigrants to America to seek his fortune, while many of them came back with dreams and paddy in his pocket. The extraordinary tale well Frank McCourt that he really had three lives. The author of Angela's Ashes began his first life in 1930 in Brooklyn, the son of poor immigrants who had returned after four years in Limerick, the home of McCourt. That life was Dickensian to say the least, to be survived by a miracle poverty. Then return to the U.S., the odd jobs, military service and finally, thanks to the scholarship back, the letters and the beginning of the second degree in life. That of a teacher in public schools in New York, like Stuyvesant High School of misfits. certainly one way he played the harmonica. To then get to the third life, the retirement 66enne, married his third wife who finally encouraged him to "walk barefoot on the grass of the Big Apple thinking of his Ireland 'to devote himself solely to the writing life. And the stars began to play the harp. In 1996 his first book, Angela's Ashes , become a phenomenon unprecedented publishing won the Pulitzer and National Book Critic. A hymn for the survivors of another era. Now, I wonder, who today is a survivor meteforicamente? Travelling if you'll come across many. Even as a commuter. With the head - and heart - the Russian steppes, mountains and the Mongolian-Siberian who occasionally reappears at night in front of my eyes, I naturally think of the shamans who travel in third class on trains, while drinking black coffee. Clouds of steam and cardboard suitcase without a name. I have met many brave, yet they meet. From what I run away, at least in the mind? Limpidezza.Certi lack of clear skies should be like people (and the blue benches). But the human mind is so cloudy that I feel to get on a rusty old Vespa and smell the sea, along Dublin Bay controvento.La life is always a question of silence, not words.