Backup Desktop
Hello.
I had recently at Conrad bought a case for a disk from my old computer to it via USB to connect to my laptop. Before I change from Vista to Windows 7, I now wanted to make a backup if something goes wrong.
The case brings a software (BackupIni 1.18, Button Manager 5097) with, so you can automatically make a backup, just by pressing a button. Theoretically. As I have just tried got only the message "access denied". Is the fact that Windows is as it were in operation to protect? How can I make a backup of the disk?
for help I would be really grateful.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
What Qualities Do You Need To Be Good Nurse?
Erotica Reticulatae
you lie to me. Not obscene, not "plump", or how these impertinent plebiscitary words like hot, swollen, not to the extreme like a soaked tumor. You lie there, relaxed, almost panting. Your skin is tinted rough and strong, dancing hills and valleys in miniature at my fingertips. Round shapes are nestled in my palm.
Then I press the thumb into the hollow, tear your skin and inject me against a couple of fine droplets that I wet the chin. My thumb dig deeper under your skin, separating it from your innermost being divided in a wet facts accomplishments, not even satisfied. Do this, this goes much deeper, which is suddenly skill, these steaming hot breath here, this Destroy and make him vulnerable and club takeovers. Animalistic desires.
throw with a quick snort, I continued, finally your skin. You are in my hands - shiny, but concealed the same time. More bad than good though, the white fringes barely keep a look at your beard, open, from your deepest weakness, but in your innocence, you do not want to give you the last nakedness. Self-deception in moral intoxication.
grab with wet fingers, I in the hole, pull apart up, the smacking sound of a buzzing drives me goose bumps through the neck. You give up reluctantly and my fingers can not resist it, until you give up control and cohesion to raw and vulnerable to rest in my hands. I have a part of you, and then another until I have everything up as a whole.
desires. You get me through the ceiling, skull fracture, out from inside and outside clean.
I devour you. We
merge. If I bite it, it shoots through my mouth, a sweet fog, light, fleeing, and present simultaneously aware of the throat down to the stomach sliding up to the solar plexus, where a deep, universal peace comes. Shaky indeed, but not nervous: expectations, knowing every moment knowing in advance to him but to experience again. An insistence that burning is suddenly given way, piece by piece it burns higher and
"Feng. Do not tell me that you're currently aufgeilen of a tangerine."
"... is the pleasure! Pleasure, I say!"
"pervert."
- fed up I swallow the last remaining Mandarin.
you lie to me. Not obscene, not "plump", or how these impertinent plebiscitary words like hot, swollen, not to the extreme like a soaked tumor. You lie there, relaxed, almost panting. Your skin is tinted rough and strong, dancing hills and valleys in miniature at my fingertips. Round shapes are nestled in my palm.
Then I press the thumb into the hollow, tear your skin and inject me against a couple of fine droplets that I wet the chin. My thumb dig deeper under your skin, separating it from your innermost being divided in a wet facts accomplishments, not even satisfied. Do this, this goes much deeper, which is suddenly skill, these steaming hot breath here, this Destroy and make him vulnerable and club takeovers. Animalistic desires.
throw with a quick snort, I continued, finally your skin. You are in my hands - shiny, but concealed the same time. More bad than good though, the white fringes barely keep a look at your beard, open, from your deepest weakness, but in your innocence, you do not want to give you the last nakedness. Self-deception in moral intoxication.
grab with wet fingers, I in the hole, pull apart up, the smacking sound of a buzzing drives me goose bumps through the neck. You give up reluctantly and my fingers can not resist it, until you give up control and cohesion to raw and vulnerable to rest in my hands. I have a part of you, and then another until I have everything up as a whole.
desires. You get me through the ceiling, skull fracture, out from inside and outside clean.
I devour you. We
merge. If I bite it, it shoots through my mouth, a sweet fog, light, fleeing, and present simultaneously aware of the throat down to the stomach sliding up to the solar plexus, where a deep, universal peace comes. Shaky indeed, but not nervous: expectations, knowing every moment knowing in advance to him but to experience again. An insistence that burning is suddenly given way, piece by piece it burns higher and
"Feng. Do not tell me that you're currently aufgeilen of a tangerine."
"... is the pleasure! Pleasure, I say!"
"pervert."
- fed up I swallow the last remaining Mandarin.
How To Change A Thermostat Subaru
The literary march
says conductor M. Despite legendary German unmusical to the whole country so sing in canon. Strictly as a wrinkle in the forehead hewn stone, and listened to every single little voice. Mostly the little voice sound more pitiful until they fall silent, the kick-off before the end anyway concerned under the wheel. The prettiest song usually results not from reading music, but from regurgitated and instilled Chunks somewhere on the net. Thanks named unmusical and typical German seriousness are the lyrics anyway, not flapping sheet music, but with thick, dusty tome called "literature".
literary canon is common knowledge - and that's good, say elitist Feuilleton reader (with a comma four children who get only whole grain cereal instead of corn flakes), in order to satisfy their own egos. The literary canon is, in principle, their conspiracy. So you have at the dinner table always an issue, and all the hidden, clever references Catch - hooray, we are made! We are finally better than all the others. Once these were
Feuilleton reader that is more or less eager high school students who have been treated to that very canon. What, however, was determined (untouchable in their Papal however!) Of the same old, ossified figures who are carrying too unrealistic timetables and a desperate improvement experiment after another in German schools to at least feel like they have done something. Because of their blind groping in innate isolation chambers - to imagine that such figures at some point, but certainly not in the last twenty years - with anyone had contact, who himself was not as ossified as they are, let alone a class - they have their hand the canon already dusty from their forefathers preserved and can not discuss with them since. So we have always done, then this has been working, and all the grass off most war novels are one way or the elixirs of the devil.
And what literature is it! As a guy with no backbone lamented that the object of his desire is given to another, and instead of healthy ways to get up - other fish in the sea daughters - he chases a ball into the depressed head. A little earlier a poet mourned for others, but how cruel war is and how fleeting the world, technically satisfactory, and spirit-breaking monotone - that is appropriate for school. The desperate
Students, however, fall on the last few centuries as the flood Zimmert, from its relation to reality, its sub-cultural affiliation an entirely different, he one hand, even joy and pleasure preparatory, in addition, but also his less elitist real and primary school colleagues to reach canon - xkcd, GTA Lady Gaga - just imagine only once, each of these students now raise the papal and now requires of all of Germany, having stolen in an ironic video game a moving car. At the same time would be at all of the Pontifical bone dry missing, they will at least have the young realize that other media in addition to the literature, some want to hold relevance for life.
But then by the conspirators cried harmoniously in unison, but you have to know what it was before, who were the size of Germany (for the current can not appear in the light of German brew - see Sarah Connor), was was, was the has yet to be German, right? Cultural identity, as it were, in principle, nothing bad.
But if your cultural identity consists of them to lie down centuries-old ham on the bread, then please - without me.
says conductor M. Despite legendary German unmusical to the whole country so sing in canon. Strictly as a wrinkle in the forehead hewn stone, and listened to every single little voice. Mostly the little voice sound more pitiful until they fall silent, the kick-off before the end anyway concerned under the wheel. The prettiest song usually results not from reading music, but from regurgitated and instilled Chunks somewhere on the net. Thanks named unmusical and typical German seriousness are the lyrics anyway, not flapping sheet music, but with thick, dusty tome called "literature".
literary canon is common knowledge - and that's good, say elitist Feuilleton reader (with a comma four children who get only whole grain cereal instead of corn flakes), in order to satisfy their own egos. The literary canon is, in principle, their conspiracy. So you have at the dinner table always an issue, and all the hidden, clever references Catch - hooray, we are made! We are finally better than all the others. Once these were
Feuilleton reader that is more or less eager high school students who have been treated to that very canon. What, however, was determined (untouchable in their Papal however!) Of the same old, ossified figures who are carrying too unrealistic timetables and a desperate improvement experiment after another in German schools to at least feel like they have done something. Because of their blind groping in innate isolation chambers - to imagine that such figures at some point, but certainly not in the last twenty years - with anyone had contact, who himself was not as ossified as they are, let alone a class - they have their hand the canon already dusty from their forefathers preserved and can not discuss with them since. So we have always done, then this has been working, and all the grass off most war novels are one way or the elixirs of the devil.
And what literature is it! As a guy with no backbone lamented that the object of his desire is given to another, and instead of healthy ways to get up - other fish in the sea daughters - he chases a ball into the depressed head. A little earlier a poet mourned for others, but how cruel war is and how fleeting the world, technically satisfactory, and spirit-breaking monotone - that is appropriate for school. The desperate
Students, however, fall on the last few centuries as the flood Zimmert, from its relation to reality, its sub-cultural affiliation an entirely different, he one hand, even joy and pleasure preparatory, in addition, but also his less elitist real and primary school colleagues to reach canon - xkcd, GTA Lady Gaga - just imagine only once, each of these students now raise the papal and now requires of all of Germany, having stolen in an ironic video game a moving car. At the same time would be at all of the Pontifical bone dry missing, they will at least have the young realize that other media in addition to the literature, some want to hold relevance for life.
But then by the conspirators cried harmoniously in unison, but you have to know what it was before, who were the size of Germany (for the current can not appear in the light of German brew - see Sarah Connor), was was, was the has yet to be German, right? Cultural identity, as it were, in principle, nothing bad.
But if your cultural identity consists of them to lie down centuries-old ham on the bread, then please - without me.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Dog Lung Cancer Lip Ulcer
SME
The sky is brown. Somewhere, between the columns of the blind. Ned has already siffig a cigarette between his fingers, determined, and while he herumknibbelt on the filter, tobacco flake crumbs on my bed. He is a bit drunk, probably, maybe it's just the stale Kotzegeruch hanging in space.
"Come here." He scratches his hairy belly. I do not react.
"Ey. Come here." It is not particularly great, the belly, but very, very hairy. It has almost anything from a teddy bear, if Ned makes the muscles of both arms pointing to large ears.
"Can not just," I mumble away. I solder, again. In principle, I can not be a whole lot like it, but customers do not wait.
The goggles slipped on my sweaty brow.
"The view you have to you," he ignored me completely, pulls on the broken foot, and yawned extensively before he tears open a new beer. "The view you have to you."
"No need."
suppt in the background every now and again a surreal news anchor from the can - the reception is bad, full of interruptions, so far below. It is as one would doze, is running television.
"Man, now come at last. DC is' over."
Impatiently I push up the glasses, a frame-up, and take a quick look at the TV. Snow is a thing of the past, but also holograms can get stuck or disappear. Especially from a so-cheap Can.
"And?"
"Wait, the same."
The newscaster howls without saying something clear, a short stretch of road is in the picture, streaky, pollute, overshadowed by all the houses behemoths. Just because in this part of town, the streets still in use, does not mean that anyone wants. It is often the case that there is no other way.
There are a few people in the picture. A few and a few more. They are all stacked in a heap, motionless, in the background is burning something. I put the goggles back on - everything is green - and go back to work.
"Man You have being scrutinized not correct," protested Ned.
"Yes, I have."
"Can not be. Then you but that would be noticed."
a moment I think only then do I pause my work again.
"What struck you?"
"That was our street, you moron."
"Sure?"
"Look out the window," he shows up and shakes his belly, "convincing yourself" excel at almost cynicism. Although I guess that something - anything - from up here could well see yet. Apart from collapsing suffocating miasma, as soon as you open the window.
"Oh," I murmur only, "Shut up."
And go back to work.
The sky is brown. Somewhere, between the columns of the blind. Ned has already siffig a cigarette between his fingers, determined, and while he herumknibbelt on the filter, tobacco flake crumbs on my bed. He is a bit drunk, probably, maybe it's just the stale Kotzegeruch hanging in space.
"Come here." He scratches his hairy belly. I do not react.
"Ey. Come here." It is not particularly great, the belly, but very, very hairy. It has almost anything from a teddy bear, if Ned makes the muscles of both arms pointing to large ears.
"Can not just," I mumble away. I solder, again. In principle, I can not be a whole lot like it, but customers do not wait.
The goggles slipped on my sweaty brow.
"The view you have to you," he ignored me completely, pulls on the broken foot, and yawned extensively before he tears open a new beer. "The view you have to you."
"No need."
suppt in the background every now and again a surreal news anchor from the can - the reception is bad, full of interruptions, so far below. It is as one would doze, is running television.
"Man, now come at last. DC is' over."
Impatiently I push up the glasses, a frame-up, and take a quick look at the TV. Snow is a thing of the past, but also holograms can get stuck or disappear. Especially from a so-cheap Can.
"And?"
"Wait, the same."
The newscaster howls without saying something clear, a short stretch of road is in the picture, streaky, pollute, overshadowed by all the houses behemoths. Just because in this part of town, the streets still in use, does not mean that anyone wants. It is often the case that there is no other way.
There are a few people in the picture. A few and a few more. They are all stacked in a heap, motionless, in the background is burning something. I put the goggles back on - everything is green - and go back to work.
"Man You have being scrutinized not correct," protested Ned.
"Yes, I have."
"Can not be. Then you but that would be noticed."
a moment I think only then do I pause my work again.
"What struck you?"
"That was our street, you moron."
"Sure?"
"Look out the window," he shows up and shakes his belly, "convincing yourself" excel at almost cynicism. Although I guess that something - anything - from up here could well see yet. Apart from collapsing suffocating miasma, as soon as you open the window.
"Oh," I murmur only, "Shut up."
And go back to work.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Wholesale Elastic Baby Headbands
Bad Mojo
Gnome history.
Das erbarmungslose Licht von draußen war wie ausgesperrt.
Innen herrschte eine heimelige Schummrigkeit; der gelbe Lichtschein durchtränkte die Papierwände, perlte ab von der Holzbank unter dem Lampion. In weichen Fingerspitzen strahlte der niedrige Ofen in der Ecke seine Wärme ab; und der Pavillon war eng genug, dass neben der Holzbank und dem Ofen sonst nicht viel Platz war.
Sie knieten auf einer Bastmatte, nebeneinander, und das chinesische Fräulein stellte zwei zierliche Schüsseln mit ausgebleichtem Kraut darin auf die Bank.
"Grauer Tee, Liebster", sagte es, "hat eine komplizierte Tradition." Here it suppressed a smile, as if it would reveal an emotion, but not his crooked teeth.
"Kaizer wants a Stradivarius."
Renoir had a fag hanging in herabgesunkenem mouth, and he said it, and stared at the flickering screen hooked on an electronic slot machine. Denardo could easily shrug his shoulders, can say: do the many. And it was true. Were enough people who wanted a Stradivarius; pitch, they say. You can not always get what you want.
Aside from Kaizer. He can. Kaizer
If a Stradivarius will, then do not you ask: Why? Or: Who should pay? Then you ask
most: What? Or, if he is really bad mood: How many?
Denardo stared at the stained rib shirt that flashed forth at Renoir grellbuntem tourist shirt. Wifebeater. It would not be surprised him.
"Otherwise I would not summoned up. You have bad mojo
He does not even listened, but took the cigarette from the mouth Renoir -. In terms of concentration of the Chesterfields but did not appreciate - and took a long train. As he exhaled, he turned it between his fingers restlessly on the filter. The whole floor war versifft mit Asche; ein Teppichboden, irgendein ranziger, früher vielleicht mal rot, inzwischen grau verschlickt, wie der städtische Winter nach den ersten drei Tagen der Begeisterung. Denardo runzelte die Stirn; er hatte diese Nacht geträumt, er müsse einen Teppich mit einem Nassrasierer kürzen. Wäre hier angebracht.
"Man darf ihn nur mit dem Schmelzwasser aus frischem Schnee aufbrühen, alles andere würde seine feine Seele beleidigen." Ob das chinesische Fräulein dies ernst meinte, war nicht ganz klar; der Tonfall nahm eine gewisse Zweideutigkeit an, die man wenden und drehen konnte wie ein Ambigramm.
"Es heißt, seine Blätter können nur auf dem Boden erwachsen, unter dem eine ermordete Jungfrau ruht. Und nur Jungfrauen dürfen seine Blätter berühren, sonst verwelkt er und sein Geschmack wird scheußlich. Auch so" - wieder ein verräterisches Zucken der Lippen, um sie zusammenzuhalten - "ist sein Geschmack zwar angenehm, doch keineswegs herausragend.
Dennoch ist er gefragt. Er soll verjüngend wirken und potenzsteigernd; und wegen seiner Gefragtheit birgt er unmächtiges Prestige, er gilt als Verlobungsgetränk, sein Duft als erotisierend..."
Even a train from the cigarette. The smell of tobacco invasive whitewashed at least the tone of stale body fluids in all the cracks and grooves, sweat, vomit, urine, blood. Sometimes he could not even remember what that was.
He stared after a failed existence, shuffled out of the gambling den and thirty others, who spilled into it in under glaring fluorescent lights, the blinking and flashing of colors whipped until they lost in delirium, twitching their future, somewhere between the beefy, euphoric chirping money eater machine.
Denardo shrugged his shoulders.
"If Kaizer wants a Stradivarius, he gets it. If thou him off, darling little brother? "
He did not wait for an answer, but put back the Chesterfield between Renoir's wrinkled lips, before the gray slush of broken lives shuffled to the exit.
stared a moment, the Chinese lady silently blushing on the silver kettle on the stove, does not push through its slender neck slowly dense steam. With a clatter it turned him aside, also on the wooden bench.
He stopped, raised his mouth and gazed incessantly on her lips.
"There are a monastery whose monks live just like this to grow gray tea. Poor families send their girls when they are young, in this monastery, from the compensation they can live for a while, and they no longer have to worry about the girls'
again. The Chinese girl fell into silence. It just stared at the throat of the boiler, and he stroked his slow - almost casually, but a lot of well-placed - a strand of hair behind her ear to get them to continue speaking. Only when he opens his mouth again, it continues to speak.
"But if monks and young women are in one place ... "The Chinese lady poured in a deliberate motion, a thin trickle of water into the bowl.
"Denardo. Where have you been? "Renoir was already drenched by spray and drizzling rain, the dark cloak wrapped tightly around him. Port harsh winds tore at his wet hair, and drove him so much blood in her cheeks, as he was only able to go ahead, blushing. Admittedly not very much.
"Will you sit down?" The storm was not particularly anxious that his Voice drive away. Denardo cast a quick look at the stone bench, had been waiting next to the Renoir - sucked out, dump out hissed between his fingertips - before he silently shook his head.
Excellent, "I should have left anyway. Let's go. "
The water drove around like restless, splashing cold steel as she slowly walked along the pier. It had an unhealthy color, almost a green, as if it would be like vomit in shipwrecks and oil, lie down and then maybe a little bit.
"To get to the point, darling big brother ... Kaizer wants a Stradivarius. "
" The is clear to me. "
" Not any. It is, "Renoir paused briefly and took a long-necked look at the rusty cargo ships bobbing angetäut in port for a moment he was the lighthouse, which warned of the cliffs. Reefs, canyons, and the man is a part of nature, and what he creates is natural.
"It is a kind of game," he said, and pushed his hands deep into their pockets, "if you understand."
"... Deflowered bring the monastery only to profit, "the Chinese girl makes the sentence ultimately want to continue the thought. "The lover in the eyes of the worshipers were all broken bones, and it was wrapped around a pole that one drove into the cemetery ground, through the heart of the worshiper. They should serve as a warning to all those who sabotaged tradition and income to license.
But ... "
The dark eyes now rest on it. Again, the Chinese lady stopped to talk, like a faltering singing bird, and he needs to stroke the Chinese temple, so it wegstellt the kettle, and continues.
"... when it rains, they say, seep the cries of the couple in the Earth and nourish the plants. And had a harbinger of a dark omen is it when you have her cry in the cup. "
with finely chopped it on his finger bowl. It was filled to the brim with silky gray, glassy liquid. And on the surface of which drove a gaping, black island.
She laughed.
"A beautiful myth, right? Drinking, treasure, drinking. .. Here we are undisturbed "
" Kaizers playmate "
He nodded over, the avenue was lined with bare trees, the trembling of the gray asphalt protruded like sick, crippled limbs.
"He almost equal in drama, paranoia and intrigue. Xiuxiu. "It had stopped raining, and the name condensed from the air.
Denardo stopped for a moment he forgot all caution. The wall was low and made of white stone, the grass behind it was morbid green, laced with a quiet, steely gray stream. Individual slabs led to an enclosed pavilion, and they moved with instinctive certainty, a Chinese lady. Small, with graceful movements, the thick hair swayed in his unimpressive ponytail. His dress was too big, too long or something, and he curled his lower lip and ran still further only when it looked over.
Renoir stood still for a moment there, waving.
"no. No. No, "
The Chinese lady was across a sentence about the pieces of the steaming, gray puddle, after he jumped up and rushed out of the tearoom. The cold air beat against him like a wall, in which he was fired carelessly, heedlessly and he raced through, with migraine-Flash Light gray. It lurched to the pale mud, hiding the grass, the wind push himself through the dress.
nine-millimeter. Nine millimeter Parabellum, nine millimeters in the temple. The bang too fast to be comprehensible.
carelessly dropped the figure of the Chinese lady in on itself before it could take the next step. The water splintered, very unmounted, and the creaking of ice floated on a dark red blood cloud.
"You know Kaizer. For a while it went well. "
Renoir threw away the jacket and his shirt pulled over his head. Red-white, without fries. This happened more often, and yet he managed to repeatedly aufzukreuzen with a clean shirt if he want. In the silence, asked
Denardo, if Renoir had found a laundry that was not only camouflage a professional killer, offices, or whether it strengthened even a woman's back. But no woman can wash yet. Not more than a mother.
"But then he became her ... tired. And now he wants his Stradivarius. "Renoir
first shook the hair, then he shrugged his bare shoulders. On his chest a few dark spots were paved.
"Is clearly the case, darling big brother? "
" Kaizer wants a Stradivarius. "short Denardo was held to take a look at his own shirt, and sighed briefly. A case for benzene. Recommended as a combination product with a match.
"Kaizer wants a Stradivarius," he repeated, then, "Kaizer gets a Stradivarius."
you lay up in her chest. The dark wood stood out against the white sheet that hung in folds from the edge of the bed messy.
Kaizer. What do you wring from me ... But Dad may
opened this Denardo
the violin case, relieved halting, confused, bewildered.
Red velvet lining, and then nothing.
empty except for a photo. He forgot himself for a moment, just stood there, before he reached carelessly after the photo. A look was a look in the mirror.
"Denardo. Darling big brother ... "He turned around
not. He took a brief, only briefly, clicked it behind his back, when the tube pressed against the back of his head.
He did not raise their hands. He remained still, stand still silent, long time. Inhuman inhuman in the broader long silence.
"Why?" He choked then hevor, swallowed das Wort, weil er beim Sprechen alles hinunterschluckte.
"Ah", sagte Renoir unberührt. "Einfach nur so."
Dann knallte es, und das Laken war rot.
Renoir warf ein Blick auf sein Hemd, und er seufzte nicht. Er schnalzte nur kurz mit der Zunge.
"Ich hab's dir gesagt, darling brother big. Schlechtes Mojo eben."
Gnome history.
Das erbarmungslose Licht von draußen war wie ausgesperrt.
Innen herrschte eine heimelige Schummrigkeit; der gelbe Lichtschein durchtränkte die Papierwände, perlte ab von der Holzbank unter dem Lampion. In weichen Fingerspitzen strahlte der niedrige Ofen in der Ecke seine Wärme ab; und der Pavillon war eng genug, dass neben der Holzbank und dem Ofen sonst nicht viel Platz war.
Sie knieten auf einer Bastmatte, nebeneinander, und das chinesische Fräulein stellte zwei zierliche Schüsseln mit ausgebleichtem Kraut darin auf die Bank.
"Grauer Tee, Liebster", sagte es, "hat eine komplizierte Tradition." Here it suppressed a smile, as if it would reveal an emotion, but not his crooked teeth.
"Kaizer wants a Stradivarius."
Renoir had a fag hanging in herabgesunkenem mouth, and he said it, and stared at the flickering screen hooked on an electronic slot machine. Denardo could easily shrug his shoulders, can say: do the many. And it was true. Were enough people who wanted a Stradivarius; pitch, they say. You can not always get what you want.
Aside from Kaizer. He can. Kaizer
If a Stradivarius will, then do not you ask: Why? Or: Who should pay? Then you ask
most: What? Or, if he is really bad mood: How many?
Denardo stared at the stained rib shirt that flashed forth at Renoir grellbuntem tourist shirt. Wifebeater. It would not be surprised him.
"Otherwise I would not summoned up. You have bad mojo
He does not even listened, but took the cigarette from the mouth Renoir -. In terms of concentration of the Chesterfields but did not appreciate - and took a long train. As he exhaled, he turned it between his fingers restlessly on the filter. The whole floor war versifft mit Asche; ein Teppichboden, irgendein ranziger, früher vielleicht mal rot, inzwischen grau verschlickt, wie der städtische Winter nach den ersten drei Tagen der Begeisterung. Denardo runzelte die Stirn; er hatte diese Nacht geträumt, er müsse einen Teppich mit einem Nassrasierer kürzen. Wäre hier angebracht.
"Man darf ihn nur mit dem Schmelzwasser aus frischem Schnee aufbrühen, alles andere würde seine feine Seele beleidigen." Ob das chinesische Fräulein dies ernst meinte, war nicht ganz klar; der Tonfall nahm eine gewisse Zweideutigkeit an, die man wenden und drehen konnte wie ein Ambigramm.
"Es heißt, seine Blätter können nur auf dem Boden erwachsen, unter dem eine ermordete Jungfrau ruht. Und nur Jungfrauen dürfen seine Blätter berühren, sonst verwelkt er und sein Geschmack wird scheußlich. Auch so" - wieder ein verräterisches Zucken der Lippen, um sie zusammenzuhalten - "ist sein Geschmack zwar angenehm, doch keineswegs herausragend.
Dennoch ist er gefragt. Er soll verjüngend wirken und potenzsteigernd; und wegen seiner Gefragtheit birgt er unmächtiges Prestige, er gilt als Verlobungsgetränk, sein Duft als erotisierend..."
Even a train from the cigarette. The smell of tobacco invasive whitewashed at least the tone of stale body fluids in all the cracks and grooves, sweat, vomit, urine, blood. Sometimes he could not even remember what that was.
He stared after a failed existence, shuffled out of the gambling den and thirty others, who spilled into it in under glaring fluorescent lights, the blinking and flashing of colors whipped until they lost in delirium, twitching their future, somewhere between the beefy, euphoric chirping money eater machine.
Denardo shrugged his shoulders.
"If Kaizer wants a Stradivarius, he gets it. If thou him off, darling little brother? "
He did not wait for an answer, but put back the Chesterfield between Renoir's wrinkled lips, before the gray slush of broken lives shuffled to the exit.
stared a moment, the Chinese lady silently blushing on the silver kettle on the stove, does not push through its slender neck slowly dense steam. With a clatter it turned him aside, also on the wooden bench.
He stopped, raised his mouth and gazed incessantly on her lips.
"There are a monastery whose monks live just like this to grow gray tea. Poor families send their girls when they are young, in this monastery, from the compensation they can live for a while, and they no longer have to worry about the girls'
again. The Chinese girl fell into silence. It just stared at the throat of the boiler, and he stroked his slow - almost casually, but a lot of well-placed - a strand of hair behind her ear to get them to continue speaking. Only when he opens his mouth again, it continues to speak.
"But if monks and young women are in one place ... "The Chinese lady poured in a deliberate motion, a thin trickle of water into the bowl.
"Denardo. Where have you been? "Renoir was already drenched by spray and drizzling rain, the dark cloak wrapped tightly around him. Port harsh winds tore at his wet hair, and drove him so much blood in her cheeks, as he was only able to go ahead, blushing. Admittedly not very much.
"Will you sit down?" The storm was not particularly anxious that his Voice drive away. Denardo cast a quick look at the stone bench, had been waiting next to the Renoir - sucked out, dump out hissed between his fingertips - before he silently shook his head.
Excellent, "I should have left anyway. Let's go. "
The water drove around like restless, splashing cold steel as she slowly walked along the pier. It had an unhealthy color, almost a green, as if it would be like vomit in shipwrecks and oil, lie down and then maybe a little bit.
"To get to the point, darling big brother ... Kaizer wants a Stradivarius. "
" The is clear to me. "
" Not any. It is, "Renoir paused briefly and took a long-necked look at the rusty cargo ships bobbing angetäut in port for a moment he was the lighthouse, which warned of the cliffs. Reefs, canyons, and the man is a part of nature, and what he creates is natural.
"It is a kind of game," he said, and pushed his hands deep into their pockets, "if you understand."
"... Deflowered bring the monastery only to profit, "the Chinese girl makes the sentence ultimately want to continue the thought. "The lover in the eyes of the worshipers were all broken bones, and it was wrapped around a pole that one drove into the cemetery ground, through the heart of the worshiper. They should serve as a warning to all those who sabotaged tradition and income to license.
But ... "
The dark eyes now rest on it. Again, the Chinese lady stopped to talk, like a faltering singing bird, and he needs to stroke the Chinese temple, so it wegstellt the kettle, and continues.
"... when it rains, they say, seep the cries of the couple in the Earth and nourish the plants. And had a harbinger of a dark omen is it when you have her cry in the cup. "
with finely chopped it on his finger bowl. It was filled to the brim with silky gray, glassy liquid. And on the surface of which drove a gaping, black island.
She laughed.
"A beautiful myth, right? Drinking, treasure, drinking. .. Here we are undisturbed "
" Kaizers playmate "
He nodded over, the avenue was lined with bare trees, the trembling of the gray asphalt protruded like sick, crippled limbs.
"He almost equal in drama, paranoia and intrigue. Xiuxiu. "It had stopped raining, and the name condensed from the air.
Denardo stopped for a moment he forgot all caution. The wall was low and made of white stone, the grass behind it was morbid green, laced with a quiet, steely gray stream. Individual slabs led to an enclosed pavilion, and they moved with instinctive certainty, a Chinese lady. Small, with graceful movements, the thick hair swayed in his unimpressive ponytail. His dress was too big, too long or something, and he curled his lower lip and ran still further only when it looked over.
Renoir stood still for a moment there, waving.
"no. No. No, "
The Chinese lady was across a sentence about the pieces of the steaming, gray puddle, after he jumped up and rushed out of the tearoom. The cold air beat against him like a wall, in which he was fired carelessly, heedlessly and he raced through, with migraine-Flash Light gray. It lurched to the pale mud, hiding the grass, the wind push himself through the dress.
nine-millimeter. Nine millimeter Parabellum, nine millimeters in the temple. The bang too fast to be comprehensible.
carelessly dropped the figure of the Chinese lady in on itself before it could take the next step. The water splintered, very unmounted, and the creaking of ice floated on a dark red blood cloud.
"You know Kaizer. For a while it went well. "
Renoir threw away the jacket and his shirt pulled over his head. Red-white, without fries. This happened more often, and yet he managed to repeatedly aufzukreuzen with a clean shirt if he want. In the silence, asked
Denardo, if Renoir had found a laundry that was not only camouflage a professional killer, offices, or whether it strengthened even a woman's back. But no woman can wash yet. Not more than a mother.
"But then he became her ... tired. And now he wants his Stradivarius. "Renoir
first shook the hair, then he shrugged his bare shoulders. On his chest a few dark spots were paved.
"Is clearly the case, darling big brother? "
" Kaizer wants a Stradivarius. "short Denardo was held to take a look at his own shirt, and sighed briefly. A case for benzene. Recommended as a combination product with a match.
"Kaizer wants a Stradivarius," he repeated, then, "Kaizer gets a Stradivarius."
you lay up in her chest. The dark wood stood out against the white sheet that hung in folds from the edge of the bed messy.
Kaizer. What do you wring from me ... But Dad may
opened this Denardo
the violin case, relieved halting, confused, bewildered.
Red velvet lining, and then nothing.
empty except for a photo. He forgot himself for a moment, just stood there, before he reached carelessly after the photo. A look was a look in the mirror.
"Denardo. Darling big brother ... "He turned around
not. He took a brief, only briefly, clicked it behind his back, when the tube pressed against the back of his head.
He did not raise their hands. He remained still, stand still silent, long time. Inhuman inhuman in the broader long silence.
"Why?" He choked then hevor, swallowed das Wort, weil er beim Sprechen alles hinunterschluckte.
"Ah", sagte Renoir unberührt. "Einfach nur so."
Dann knallte es, und das Laken war rot.
Renoir warf ein Blick auf sein Hemd, und er seufzte nicht. Er schnalzte nur kurz mit der Zunge.
"Ich hab's dir gesagt, darling brother big. Schlechtes Mojo eben."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)