i put the most recent chapter of empyrium through google translate and i’m very confused

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When he heard his father's shame, he felt the need to dry his mouth. This makes it difficult for women to choose for women, but it wants caution. She broke her mother's cage, pulled her mother's cage out .And suddenly the young man started to scream and laugh. He does not like all cases.

If possible, he regulates and does not need any further protection. She does not know what he looks like and why he is so close. I can't be a mother, she is a very old man

No. Slowly he rose on his head. Not because he knows he can read his grave. Abbot

Not sure what to do, he eliminated the viewing angle. He was calm and calm. Why is your name important? He asked. Most people know their names. This is true, but it is neither good nor bad. These small veins suck at the waist, increase blood flow when the movement moves, and are sensitive to movement. This viewpoint may be rejected or denied, but it will take years to receive support. He is funny, but useless. His throat is softer and softer than a happy man's throat. Abbot

Close your teeth and jump in the air. "How do you know my name?" He said nothing, everything was green, and the building started to rot. For the first time. Six Shi is known for removing all holes from the ilm to the walls.

Uber didn't see that. After a long time, her body began to shake, but Fannie approached him, lifted her wrists and shook her head. He was sitting on the edge of the board with a chair blanket.

He died too. This time he did not see, but knew where he was. Air in the corner of the room. He finally found her in the room a few minutes ago, but she was soft and gentle. The windows are not open, but the room light is on.

The sand is in one corner, the bottom is, and the mud is. When the envelope is crossed, the director closes. She has black hair on her face, but she is still beautiful. A good word that gives a very good explosive is based on the second button.

Someone wrote a scrap on his head, covered it with cash, and the man passed by. His right hand took a deep breath and fell asleep. Men are smarter than men. Anxiety looked at his face. He looked at the tree. The last slide and the second slide look too long.

Abbott does not know what the inspiration hat is about. She found two bowls of mother and baby mouth. Finally

Abbott adheres to how women regularly clean their diapers.

Hiding a boy's face is a reflection of his father's red. Thinking he was coming back, he pushed the boy over his shoulder, applied a chill to the desk, and ran his black hair over his ears.

He took her to the stage and saw her new parents again in her face, pretending to be happy with his previous baby but as a kid. Height combination The other guy's face lets the other guy do it with a kind smile.

Mom cleaned the glass and asked how I got it? "This guy's name?

Another came with the others: it was time to stop talking before anyone could speak. Abbott James does. "

The nurse can enter the room and leave the infant for the first time. The woman smiled as she sat quietly on her hungry breasts. Seeing her husband, she said, "Open your eyes."

This condition is a tragedy. (I know your hair.)

The power of biology, the things that make it impossible. They do not believe that the future is not a family dream. They say it is wrong for them.

There is constant fear and panic when the RA hits something big during the day. When the house cools with the mother, the child puts their hands on them and is afraid of trouble.

She also cried when she heard her body touching and pulling. The floor overlooking the view is filled with a room covered in green light and is considered beautiful with a two-picture balcony. She opened her eyes in fear and opened her mind.

Abbott wasn't surprised, he wondered. Why don't you want parents? They are very proud, be careful ... they should be better. What has changed?

The questions are answered in a second and ring in the room. He was a voice I had never heard of, but he always knew something. Her face trembled as she walked to the red cone, two words behind her. "I'll be back."

Then he saw in his mind the guardian of the truth when it never occurred to him: his mother slept with him 16 years ago. The bed you choose for your mom will work. Another bed would change your life forever.

He lost his mind and tried to destroy his master. As she worked the day after the position, her thighs were completely. His head was shaking and it was strange how his eyes looked from ear to ear until he saw him. He turned his head on the bed, his blue eyes fluttering and his eyes vibrating until they pointed to Fennin.

The pastor did not know after him that the Emperor would rise. She did her best to save the pillow. Standing in shock, his breath groaned and Flinn sighed. He jumped out of the garage and into the monk's bed, took a chair over his head and crossed the living room. "Stop me doing this first, why me?"

Abbott suddenly saw his mouth dry like dust, blew on his metallic lips and tried to respond. "Be sure."

Fiona laughed as Abit's body moved away from the veil, protecting her from the heat, and touching her belly. You're fine, but I'm worried, but I'm not sure you can avoid a break.

Abbott couldn't feel the pain closing his eyes when he heard the woman's voice. "The woman's name is Olga. She was attacking your bed."

He quickly dropped it and tried to put his thoughts into one sentence: "No, Finn, not him.

Finland is not angry at birth women? Will you meet her, lady? That's your dream

Abbott raised his chest with constant pressure. Not a dream They are very careful."

I was writing, as writers often do, when I had a revelation. Feeling flashed before my eyes in an epiphany, something I should have seen long ago:

There is no such thing as perfect writing.

Published or non-published, poetry or prose, there will always be something to fix. There will always be something to criticize. Years from now we will look back and want to change a hundred different things. Characters, a sentence, a word. There will always be a way to make it “better.”

Enlightening as this is, what does this mean? Are we to simply give up writing, if we will never reach our own standards? Of course not. But how do we tackle this?

Perhaps the secret to writing is moving past our perfectionism to create something greater than perfection. What is greater than perfection? The human spirit. What makes us human? Our flaws. It is our flaws that grow us and shape us into the unique beings that we are, and it is our mistakes that we learn from. Writing is risky. We all know that. We have to put ourselves on a pedestal. Characters that we’ve shaped and modified, who have become a part of us, must be shipped to the world through ink, to be loved or hated by all who perceive them.

So, maybe, writing isn’t about being perfect. We have to find something better than that. Maybe the best writers put passion on the page and embrace the flaws of their own words. Only then will a 9 become a 10, a 10 an 11, an 11 a 100. When we accept our imperfections and share them with the world in this new positive light, we discover a deeper part of ourselves, and that is what shines through over all else.

Keep writing writers, as we fight the revelation of the human spirit in its rawest form.

I am sorry I was so hard on you. It was not your fault that

I was thrashing in my cage, and that you were the best thing I had seen in years.

I could have been better for you. It was not your fault that my mother was right.

I am sorry I was so scared, buried in the darkness of myself;

I could have loved you better, tried to love you in the way

I wanted you to love me, but I was consumed by anxiety,

all my bones were broken, and they ached and splintered

when I tried to run to you.

I am sorry I tried to scar you. I bit my lips when all I wanted to say was

you’re so filled with light, I can hardly stand it, you smell like flowers and happiness and I am so consumed by hurt that I don’t know how to relate to you, but I really want to.

I am sorry I couldn’t express myself in other ways than prolonged stares and

text messages in the middle of the night. I am sorry I tried to pull you down

into my mud, into places where no air exists. You have a sun for a soul,

and I was drowning you in my oceans.

But I want to tell you that if you leave the light on in your room, I will leave it on in mine, and if you keep reaching out, I will keep coming back.

So there I was crushing my boyfriend’s neck into rubble when I realized that I forgot to put gloves on. I wasn’t really thinking about it when my nails dug into his malleable flesh but when it’s all said and done I don’t want my DNA on him. Oh well, guess I’ll have to burn him. The good thing in all of this is that I always love a reason for a bonfire and barbeque.

It is a sin they say

To love whomever you may,

Bisexuality isn't just a phase

It is a part of life's race

It is something you must face

And learn to acknowledge and love

It is like the purest dove

That floats in the pond

With all those self proclaimed 'normal' people hating on you

For, It is a sin they say

To love whomever you may.

I cherish and keep rushing thoughts as if they were diaries.

Like I am trying to live my whole life by tomorrow,

hoping for a lifetime of love to fall through my tainted hands.

I want to know what normal feels like

because everyone tells me its great.

To know what a million dollars feels like

because its a manner of speech and momma always told me

to have good manners.

And to be honest.

But my normal is budgeting tattoos and poetry books into my monthly wages.

Along with cannabis, kind words, and duct tape because I know

those are the only things that keep love alive.

Yes, I will be old and covered in ink with holes in my ears and face,

and the only arthritic bone in my body will be my middle finger

because its nice enough to say,

“hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

I first saw God that night I squeezed the moon like a lime,

but I was ten years early and too poor to buy tequila.

So we put sugar on the rims of mountain dew margaritas

because even now salt doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

I saw Him again that one northern Ohio winter

that was almost cold enough for me to quit smoking.

Harboring hate like the Titanic and ramming it into

my iceburg heart.

He said to me, “hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

Then he lit a hurricane.

The rain couldn’t stop me from stealing sidewalk chalk.

I loved the blue powder it left,

like dehydrated raindrops.

I precipitated hopscotch squares too long to travel

and promised at the end that I would find Jesus.

Those long drives home to my clumsy pup and humble saint mother

taught me that there are things worth fighting for.

And things to fight,

like those chalk tears,

creating endless streams of sanctity.

I do this for her

because even when I shout “fuck” in front of church crowds,

she knows I speak with the blunt conviction of love.

And even after discovering the dead bodies of

adolescent rebellion in my room,

she loves this fuck-up.

So thanks for the manners because it drives girls crazy.

And thanks for the truth because it makes my words worth something.

My skin burned as your lips traced my skin our eyes meeting only for milliseconds as you switched sides setting my body aflame. Your fingertips felt cold against my hips and my spine arched. The lights flared and despite the clothes, people, and noise it felt like we were alone in my room. Just you and the flames.

I’m in a mood, ignore me.

I, Kaytrine, accept myself to be my companion in the journey of life.

I promise to allow myself to learn with time.

I will not be my own bully,

and drown myself in my mistakes.

Instead, I will be my own supporter,

and lift myself in my victories.

I promise to love my body.

I will adore the vessel given to me,

maintain its parts,

and drive it with great care.

I promise to nurture those who love my soul.

I will respect the souls that my heart adores,

and admire those that my heart finds worthy.

I promise to always be changing.

I will never stick to the same river,

I will never be one state,

I will always shift forms.

I promise to keep moving.

My feet will not be idle,

My thoughts will not be stagnant,

My soul will always run.

I, Kaytrine, allow myself to live life.

As painful as it may be,

As beautiful as it may seem.

Until death do my body and my soul part.

O how

Ruefully I pine

For mi pueblito perdido,

What I wouldn’t give,

To be young again,

And happy as I was back then.

Maria, full of peace,

Do you remember

Francis Albert softly keening

O Amor Em Paz,

And other songs by Jobim,

Happy as you were back then?

O for

That wide-eyed

Impression of yours,

Paquita (la de Murcia),

Of your beloved Mary Lyn,

Happy as you were back then.

O how

Ruefully I pine

For mi pueblito perdido,

What I wouldn’t give,

To be young again,

And happy as I was back then.