Warning Signs Of An Approaching Stroke

removable wheels Pavilion

I know it's impossible to write something in conditions when one feels good or happy. For some reason the Muses always come to the rescue when we hit the sadness, heartbreak, torments, or uncertainty. It occurs to me now think again you have always been my inspiration, that I lost and that saves me ... my best friend, for making me dream, my own worst enemy by being the only one still able to hurt me.

My head takes years utilizándote, fingering your memory drift between nightmares, afraid to say goodbye. I guess because it suits my soul writer ... when I take something out of habit I turn to some so addicted to it.

But now, sitting in this hospital room, time passes differently and you go to import rather limited, to say nothing.

Here are happy people and sad people, it's amazing what you can produce in us the information, knowledge. As you can change your life in one second ...

The guy in the room 22, the girl crying in the room 23 laughs. Everything is a perfect compendium of smiles and tears, endless corridors, cold and heat, flowers and empty beds. Take so long trying to understand life, I confess that sometimes I forgot to live. I honestly do not know if I can ever forgive myself, but luckily today I played a special ward: that of the infectious.

Indeed I think I have caught something, and for better or for worse I remind the flavor they have the stuff ... I miss.

- "Happiness" - says the doctor looked at me sternly.

"Are they good or bad news?" - Wonder of laughter.

would not know what to say. And I'm honest. I know, I know that this disease should be exploited, nobody knows how long. There are people living in the future, people living in the past, then I am.

But this today is my flag, and the truth is that I like this room, so full of light and life. What nobody knows is that I have thought to escape tonight, before I injected antibodies to fight this disease that could last a year, a month, for a moment, perhaps just what it takes to write, what it takes to forget you, what it takes to tell myself that all give a shit, they will not be me.

What I know is I do not want to catch me here again the scheme or Actually, with their white coats, dull and pristine ... I know is I do not want to be here when melancholy comes to whisper: "You're cured."

Only one thing I regret: not being here to see faces put.