you write beautiful... inside your mind must be terrible... I do not even get that in rejection letters any more.. just nop your style of writing is not for us.. I wonder if there will be a time people will read my poetry and say yes.. his message was clearly for those of us today.. or yesterday or sometime which meant something to someone other then myself.. I wonder.. I know I am read.. but seldom understand the context a person reads my work.

you write beautiful... inside your mind must be terrible... I do not even get that in rejection letters any more.. just nop your style of writing is not for us.. I wonder if there will be a time people will read my poetry and say yes.. his message was clearly for those of us today.. or yesterday or sometime which meant something to someone other then myself.. I wonder.. I know I am read.. but seldom understand the context a person reads my work. I fear that I am writing for my own enjoyment but know that I am historically writing about a time when I traveled in time and space to differnet worlds which had differnet geographical history and history.. I am not saying that is special just unual and that no one cares in the least bit makes me wonder. when i point this out to people that I know are not from here they are pushed or puled back to this reality with cause of disdain.. like remember they are not from here is painful or something they wish to forget. I for one realize not being from here makes my rarional opinion more subjective then factual. meaning with history changing thing tend to be differnet enough to cause me to question my reality at present.

What inspired most about the collection of books my uncle had purchased. Were the binders that seemed to be filled with actual handwritten and typed manuscripts. Specifically, I found one written on what World War I was like by Hemingway, according to marginal notes.

It was like living a tale of an ambulance driver in Italy driving soldier to safety against the Austrians. The tale is about an ambulance drive in Italy went into vivid details. Serving in the American Red Cross during 1918. How the driver handed out chocolate and cigarettes to soldiers and children. That the driver wounded by mortar fire ascribed to A

I had just experiences an auction of sorts. I had gotten off a train in Paris, France. There was a long line of people peering into a room. So I thought I would see what was in the room as well. They were auctioning off old luggage.

Wildly, people were bidding small prices on some of what looked like old suitcases, and items that evidently got lost at the train station.

The prices were ridiculously low. Seemed absurd how low the people would bid. Since I was there and had some change. I threw my bid in for a weather-beaten suitcase. Tags read both in German and French via France, some town to Swiss. The tag showed no month either gone or curled up and 15, 1922, Hadle curled up a portion of the last name.

My bid of five dollars American did the trick. I got the bid. Paying the five dollars however was just the beginning of the process. Seemed let alone did I have to pay five for the bid? I had to pay a pound weight for the weight of the suitcase. It total it cost me 21.23. King of wild. 23 cents in US currency took forever to exchange. However, evidently the charges of this are this, and that is that in France is uniquely bureaucratic.

Upon getting the suitcase to the hostile I was staying at next to a bookstore that allowed writers to sleep on the floor if they were writing, I got to opening the case. When my first attempts did not work. I went next door to see if I could bum a screwdriver from the English-speaking bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. I had taken the tag off the suitcase, replaced it was my own.

Getting permission from the bookstore owner to use their screwdriver took sometime. So I just wanted to get to my bed and open the thing right away.

I opened it to find notepads filled with writing. A mans suit, and a few personal items from a woman. I read the notepads. All handwritten the cursive was hard for me to sort of translate.

The story went along the following lines on the first notepad.

It was like living a tale of an ambulance driver in Italy driving soldier to safety against the Austrians. The tale is about an ambulance drive in Italy went into vivid details. Serving in the American Red Cross during 1918. How the driver handed out chocolate and cigarettes to soldiers and children. That the driver wounded by mortar fire ascribed to Austrian’s “then there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door swung open, and a roar that started white and went red,” is most surreal to read the handwritten account. The driver while wounded carried some wounded soldier to safety and injured again, trying to go back by machine gun fire. The handwritten story describes how the driver received a Medal of Valor from the Italian government.

Then the handwriting like a short story went into some detail about how hard war was on a person’s soul. Going into minor details of how gory and inspiring speeches seem to contradict one another in war and that inspiration one should find not in war but in writing or peace or something outside the horrors of war.

The handwriting was wet. And after a moment of realization, I could smell whiskey or rumor someone had spilt some sort of liquor on the paper. It had dried now, but the words inspiring by not being a warmonger was something to understand from the short story. What got me as the reader more into the story? Was the detail noting who was in charge of all the American wars of mass murder. Democrats are warmongers seemed to be the end tale written about how President Wilson had lied about rationale for getting into the Great War.

Austrian’s “then there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a roar that started white and went red,” is most surreal to read the handwritten account. The driver while wounded carried some wounded soldier to safety and injured again, trying to go back by machine gun fire. The handwritten story describes how the driver received a Medal of Valor from the Italian government.

Then the handwriting like a short story went into some detail about how hard war was on a person's soul. Going into small details of how gory and inspiring speeches seem to contradict one another in war and that inspiration should be found not in war bt in writing or peace or something outside the horrors of war.

The handwriting at times was wet. And after a moment of realization I could smell whiskey or rumor some sort of liquor had been spilt on the paper. It had dried now but the words inspiring by not being a warmonger was something to understand from the short story. What got me as the reader more into it. Was the detail noting who was in charge of all the American wars of mass murder. Democrats are warmongers seemed to be the end tale.

So the funny part of watching who is funding the anti Trump people. soros, clintons, obamas... Soros is evil. Clintons are evil.. correlation so is obama.. the fighting that soros is paying for through actors is redefining Anarchy because they cover themselves up and pretend to be whom you represent. The shame is May 1st their plan to march on DC. I would strongly suggest that all true Anarchist take Soros money, ride Soros buses to DC. Then volunteer and give the money to the poor. Why fight an evil persons battle for them for paper that is worthless each day.