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Category 5

arise from the random condensation of steam, wind and high temperatures. They approach slowly as a mild storm gain strength at will, advance, catch you and when you react, you can only lament the destruction they have caused. By then it will have vanished into thin air. Hurricanes are as terrible as inevitable and, in years like this, are named after women. Each with its letter, Ana A, C for Claudette, the E for Erika.

Hurricane T came by chance, but wasted little time in going from light breeze to a tropical storm. However, its winds blowing transparent, full of nobility and dignity. T because, unlike the rest of weather, he warned. And soon reached Category 1.

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forgot to take shelter in a safe place to stockpile food and weather the storm. The forgot or maybe I wanted to ignore. And Hurricane T was gaining strength. Their swirls danced with exquisite sweetness. Gusts, fresh in the heat, warm the cold, were the best place to get involved. And the hurricane was a category T and 2.

A spate of wisdom came upon me in the middle of the storm and decided to run for refuge. Tapié doors and windows, walls and roof blindé sealed my soul in tight. But a whiff of madness seeped through a crack and left unconscious to the storm. T was then a Category 3 hurricane beautiful of those you know will not go twice.

With gusts of over two hundred laughs per hour and gusts of seventy kisses per minute, T began to be felt on foundations and structures. The strength of my frame was beginning to falter and that cyclone, far from losing power, ruthlessly reached the dangerous significance of category 4.

Category 5 is too painful. Hurricane T, a whirlwind of honesty, now up to other regions, leaving behind the consequences of their steps. So tonight, while recall your photo on the nightstand, I do wish that the memory of your brew breeze through the window one day from today is again paved with bricks.

Whats Uranus Planet Called In Hindi

That is the question

"And you how are you?" Does not seem, in principle, a simple question to answer in the space of a red light. Passenger sitting, the girl half journalist, half teacher, half actor, half dancer (that makes four halves, but there are those who are good for two), exercised its four sides at once, as a barrage of stimuli that only a titan could emerge unscathed. Its half journalist inquired in my personality, to learn more about the individual with whom he was sharing some hours in your already busy life. Its half professor examined me in detail, to see if anything deserved to pass the course of their dedication. Its half endowed actress of comic drama that scene in the car from which Hamlet himself would run away, but not before throwing out the window that poor skull never fully understood why there's the question. And his sweetly dizzy dancer half my brain cells with a cha-cha of salts and sugars that made my mind in a messy pie for dessert that evening well fed.

I, who never went to talk too, which I attended to my own exposure skull. "You what you ... "go with the girl. be or not be a dilemma seemed easier to solve, even more than ever improvise an invention other than to escape from those "tell me what you are thinking ... NOW." But "you and how you" surpassed in difficulty the maze of those traffic lights, Caribbean dance technique and to the dilemmas of the Danish prince. The radio filled the silence. And here the issue was resolved, as if by some chance, the lyrics of a song with amazing aim expressed more accurate response to all possible: