Anti-Chirilă. de azi oficial și scuzabil.

Imi place de azi-ul, pentru ca mainele a ajuns azi, si ar trebui sa schimb timpul de adresare.
De azi ma accept la Aberdeen. Am fost acceptat de ei, dar nu ma acceptasem eu. Eu eram pe "Libertate frate poate facultate si viata de noapteeeee". Nu. De azi incepem. De azi incepe meciul. Azi este, totusi, doar un reper, dar de azi, de azi incepem sa ne luam la pumni cu Gaia.

E serioasa. De capu'meu, in mijlocu'nicaieriului, si dai si lupta, dai si lupta sa merite toti banii bagati in tine, dai si gaseste de lucru, si munceste, si invata, si gaseste-ti oameni de baza si bazeaza-te. Cuz this, de azi inainte mai mult ca de azi inapoi, ain't no fairytale. E clar ca ai de lucru si e foarte clar ca ai de luptat sa pastrezi ce ai, ce ai si e greu de tinut, si ce ai si trebuie sa tii. E groasa. mai groasa decat ai crezut si mai groasa decat poti sa pricepi acu', e groasa rau de tot.

Esti de capul tau. Esti nicaieri. Esti cu nimeni. Esti cu tot de pierdut si tot de castigat. Fara hold on. N-o sa vina nimeni dupa tine. Si daca asta nu e ieseala din comfort zone, atunci nu stiu care-ar mai fi.

"-Do you have a plan?
-Not even remotely. I don't have the first damned clue what we're going to do. But all my best plans start just like this"

 din "The Lies of Locke Lamora", a lui Scott Lynch

Aberdeen. Intr-o relatie la distanta.

Your move!

 Deci e prea mult. E prea de tot. E mult prea prea si tare foarte foarte.

Descriere.

" 

 Prologue

IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die. "

din "The Name of the Wind", a lui Patrick Rothfuss