Wheelchair Joystick Controller Schematic

Bunkeriana

I leave your home to a world full of light and small tasks, already underway in a while. Leaving the cool shadows and frisky in your small apartment, not without a little fun and feeling of helplessness, I get a world suddenly bright and hot. The cicadas sing invisible in every corner. Noon thousands cups medium nap roller and desktops anonymous voices of mothers warm in a low voice, the sound of dominoes and secrecy of letters to the shadow with shadows on the table or half or milk alone or stained, what they call tag and never I have known what , plus some Cubata inevitable.
leave home and I realize that the long tunnel of the night I returned to this world and, indeed, could have done to anyone else. A world filled with, say, steam car or scooter locusts in greeting to the antennas, under an equatorial heat. A full daylight assaults me the terrible realization that in during these hours that we spent together out here, anything could have happened, the end of this crisis, nuclear war ... that there could have been, today, the chaos to come ; that, ultimately, if I know this town and its people is because at night, nothing has happened outside the walls of flesh and body fluids, mime and tender complicity with which we have raised. Nothing. At least nothing remarkable except that it is Saturday July Nosecuantos.
is time to return. Departure to make your day. I have the impression to achieve that I have to run a little on the platform. Your skin and your sheets acquire the force of cutlery and old bills. The duvet cover will make a respectful way, to take back the responsibility decent dress your bed. Meanwhile, I hereby give my first step outside on the sidewalk.
I leave the shelter of a vast abyss of depth that you acquire two rooms, the small palace of unparalleled luxury reality and the stable in Bethlehem ... ... what I ... This tiredness swirls gently thousand images in my head: Low the highest heaven, or maybe go up to the most welcoming
sewer ... ... and, shaking the scales, look for my car under the light of which, I say this sleepy astonishment, I had almost forgotten.
start and the machine responds with a purr so many other anonymous you hear distant from the orchards. And some, like a huge red shell on the road, through fields that resist the edge of town, full of flowers and bushes dry and this huge smell of chamomile which I received just outside your home.
The house has both slow to open up.
I raise the volume on the window and I let the wind caress the face of this new condition.

Jean Le Fennec Et Willy Albimoor

To travel at the end of the night

Today I finally finished Journey to the End of the night. many years I struggled to get started. 15 years maybe, to feel ready for the appointment postponed all the time I read the first page to sneak into a house or taking my time in bookstores, a strange house ... to convert it into one of those verses that I recorded in the heart, along with a phrase that one day I blew my sister - only the last words , first confessed that he remembered them, "or the Ver Sacrum Klimt-sometimes just a title" ... await Words on the side of a sheet or first page of Journey to the End of the night ... and it occurs to me now, perhaps, in places where perhaps never will happen. Perhaps have your closer than me, perhaps there are now back on the shelf, or at the table next door, two floors above your head stock, or perhaps it is I who have yours here, and maybe even have read, the waiting for you, move into my step ... or dull me to your strength.
Road East shelf stays with me, Dad, do not you think back, "I opened the book for any page, simply going through boxes of letters diagonal, savoring the strands of her whisper ... now that could well recognize. So I think it's one of the best written books in the world. And yet I have not read in French.
not know if it's a good book, or what the fuck wants to tell even me how much damage has been done, as Louis-Ferdinand Céline warned from the beginning . It is one of those books that you would not know very well explain how you go: The story of a miserable, bitter language counted as beautiful. Yes. Therefore greatly, hopelessly. Then I began to wash the dishes, enjoying the hot water run on the dirt from my hands and the bubbling inside, like the urge to mourn, to me the exposure to beautiful things.