<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780</id><updated>2012-02-16T03:15:53.499-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Secrets.</title><subtitle type='html'>They are like pieces of me.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>8</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-3662098996567324544</id><published>2008-08-29T11:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-29T12:03:46.488-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I always cry at endings.</title><content type='html'>I hate changes. Completely.  I don't know their purpose. Well, that's a huge lie. Of course I know it. But I just cannot accept that. It is awful when you wake up one day and you are not who you were the day before. No, not any longer. You look at the mirror and see yourself older or different.&lt;br /&gt;Such thing scares me at all. Things I cannot control, in fact.&lt;br /&gt;Every day I go to school and pass by a man, an old man, who smokes a pipe (I do not know if it is really a pipe, but that's the way I remember this man. It can be just my imagination). I wonder, now and then, how the things would be if he died. Would that street be different from now? Would my sight of the world become any other because of a person with whom I had never spoken before?&lt;br /&gt;I have no idea. But I think that, somehow, he became a part of me. I usually think of him like a sailor, I don't know why. Perhaps because he remembers me of an old, old man of a book I love.&lt;br /&gt;I am running away of the main idean. I mean, what is bothering me is the fact that I, myself, am changing a lot. Manner of thinking, points of view, the way I act or answer the world around me. I am too afraid of everything ...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;I wish the world woul stop&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;and start singing me a song&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;abou how it can be like always. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;and forever it will be whatever&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;we want it to.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I a dreamer? A foolish girl?&lt;br /&gt;Oh... surely.&lt;br /&gt;I really always cry at...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;endings.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-3662098996567324544?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/3662098996567324544/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=3662098996567324544' title='2 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/3662098996567324544'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/3662098996567324544'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2008/08/i-always-cry-at-endings.html' title='I always cry at endings.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-5440529657918753607</id><published>2007-12-10T08:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-10T09:18:36.002-08:00</updated><title type='text'>~</title><content type='html'>I am so tired of feeling these things, but stopping is impossible. When I woke up today, everything was kind of perfect, I was so calme. But now I'm terribly sad and I don't want to do anything. I hate this and I reallyreallyreally try to kill it [but I cannot]. That's why I will do my best to stop with this shit. It must be madness, but... sometimes the word suicide comes to my mind, and, in my deep despair, it stays for a while. I can't handle this pain anymore, it hurts a lot. It's not a sort of drama, it's my reality. I just want to hide myself, to forget everybody and anything, but there's a thing [a feeling] that takes me here.&lt;br /&gt;The price is the pain. The pain for the happiness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't have too much to talk about, I just need. Yeah, need...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-5440529657918753607?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/5440529657918753607/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=5440529657918753607' title='1 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/5440529657918753607'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/5440529657918753607'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/12/blog-post.html' title='~'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-2355224169831611660</id><published>2007-11-30T07:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-30T08:40:04.507-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Nocturnal poetry.</title><content type='html'>Sometimes I just want to get out of here. It's hard when she thinks her way is the only and right  way.  What does she want me to do? Ok, I know, but I try to deny this. I'm  the kind of person who doesn't like to receive rules or orders. She wants me to believe in what she believes, to follow her faith and averything good to her, even if I disagree completely. Her misconception is here, beside her, and I don't need to touch this to turn me on a better person.&lt;br /&gt;I hate this, oh please. I have so much to say, but, most of time, I say nothing. I just miss the hunger, the animation or the wanting to do whatever I had been doing before she speaks. And then a incredible will of crying comes to me and I need a big effort to get up and control the tears. That's war, my almost everyday war, now I see I'm such a weak girl.&lt;br /&gt;She is here, complaining, as usual, with her hot-head, asking me where I went wrong in the french test. And right now, somehow, I feel like I'm the worst person in the world for thinking these things about her. Well, and now, I hate her again.&lt;br /&gt;Take me out, please.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-&gt; By the way, I received my french test: Writing ~ 9,7 ;  Oral ~ 9,0. I liked it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm already in vacations, and, to celebrate this, yesterday I rented two movies, but just one of them deserves worth: "The Freedom Writers". It talks about some students living in a dangerous area, where everybody have gangs. They kill each other everyday, and the school, to them, is nothing. But just until a new teacher of English enter in the school. She changes the life of these teenagers forever. I advice you to see that movie. Really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I don't have too much to say, my life is so boring.&lt;br /&gt;Bye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;pre&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" &gt;As I wait for the time&lt;br /&gt;my dream comes alive&lt;br /&gt;Always out of sight&lt;br /&gt;but never out of mind &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-2355224169831611660?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/2355224169831611660/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=2355224169831611660' title='1 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2355224169831611660'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2355224169831611660'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/nocturnal-poetry.html' title='Nocturnal poetry.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-5123306128690624982</id><published>2007-11-27T14:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-27T14:37:23.828-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh, you can't tell me it's not worth trying for.</title><content type='html'>I know. I didn't write yesterday. But I was so fucking tired and I wasn't in the mood to talk about my presentation. Well, what can I say? The first song went totally wrong, and I almost died of despair. I cannot explain the feeling of playing in front of people, of sharing something important to you. Music is very important to me, not as important as writing, but I really care about this.&lt;br /&gt;Oh, yes, the other songs went pretty well,  and I felt like I could do anything after these moments of anxiety. I promised to myself that, in the next presentation, I won't get nervous and I'll do my best.&lt;br /&gt;By the way, I did a really, really, good french test, and I hope nine or more. Arghe, I cannot handle anymore tests. Tomorrow will be a gorgeous day: my vacations, goodbye school. Oh, I am so thankful for its coming, that I can't even believe it's almost in my hands. Nevertheless, I'll have a spanish test tomorrow, a music test on thursday and, finally but not less important, an oral french test. Oh, and, of course, math's tomorrow (I have studied all day long for this, avec [avec? ok, french is affecting my mind!] &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;with &lt;/span&gt;Lygia.), and we are a little confident about this. Ly, we can do it, we can!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a lot of ideas of new chronicles (I don't know the word "contos" in English. :/) to turn on and in the paper, inside, inside. Many characters and their behaviors and feelings and thoughts! But I'm too lazy (and I must say busy too) to write this now. I need time to put the ideas in their right way. I'm the sort of perfectionist person, as you can imagine, I need a big analysis of my  people of paper.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, that's all, folks! :D&lt;br /&gt;I Think I'll play Ragnarök right now. :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;pre style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;There's no love, like your love&lt;br /&gt;And no other, could give more love&lt;br /&gt;There's nowhere, unless you're there&lt;br /&gt;All the time, all the way&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-5123306128690624982?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/5123306128690624982/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=5123306128690624982' title='2 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/5123306128690624982'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/5123306128690624982'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/oh-you-cant-tell-me-its-not-worth.html' title='Oh, you can&apos;t tell me it&apos;s not worth trying for.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-2194453496224457705</id><published>2007-11-26T02:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-26T03:19:44.636-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Let there be love.</title><content type='html'>I suck at physics. Really. The test was absolutely horrible, it was awful! I'll have a red mark, I believe. But, in despite of this, I think I went well in chemistry, which is bizarre. Sometimes I wonder if math/physics/chemistry teachers want to fuck with the life of their students, because they are not as good as the human teachers are. They pass on the subjects like the speed of light, that's amazing, yeah. That's why the students have too many difficulties in them. And they look like they don't even give a damn.&lt;br /&gt;I cannot stop listening to "No Frontiers", a song by The Corrs. It's so beautiful and calm, I get really relaxed, and right now I &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;NEED &lt;/span&gt;to relax. I am very eager for the presentation. I know I'm repetitive, but I don't care, you must know it's hard to put youself out in a public place. It's complicated, I'm not the kind of shy person, but I'm afraid of playing in front of a lot of people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok, let's forget about this, shall we? Let's talk about my vacations! I'm almost in this, and that's amazing! I deserve free time to read, to write, to think, to do absolutely nothing! Isn't that wonderful? Oh, yes, it is. I'll take many movies, I'll go to botanic garden, to the theater, I want nights awake just talking about who we are! Imagine... listening to music all the day long without worries.&lt;br /&gt;I have to admit: my life is full of things to do, and sometimes I just need a break. That's something I must know, but I pretend it doesn't exist, so I should say I have problems like any normal person. I'm not the superwoman with superpowers, and no worries, except to save the world. Yeah, I want to save it too. Someday. But I have problems. I do have. I just try to kill them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need to study french. I'll write today again, but just after the presentation. Wish me luck, I'd love to have much of it.&lt;br /&gt;My self-confidence smells like a piece of shit, oh noes. :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;pre style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Come on, Baby Blue&lt;br /&gt;Shake up your tired eyes&lt;br /&gt;The world is waiting for you&lt;br /&gt;May all your dreaming fill the empty sky&lt;br /&gt;But if it makes you happy&lt;br /&gt;Keep on clapping&lt;br /&gt;Just remember I'll be by your side&lt;br /&gt;And if you don't let go, it's gonna pass you by&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-2194453496224457705?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/2194453496224457705/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=2194453496224457705' title='1 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2194453496224457705'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2194453496224457705'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/let-there-be-love.html' title='Let there be love.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-1857817153151966702</id><published>2007-11-25T17:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-26T02:51:44.883-08:00</updated><title type='text'>No Frontiers.</title><content type='html'>I cannot understand why people say "It doesn't matter what happens, I'll always love you".  It's not true!  If you  go out of line, they will surely throw you away, like shit. That's the reality. When I say it doesn't matter what happens, I say it like an essencial truth. Because I think it's the right way to do. Telling the truth.&lt;br /&gt;I don't know the reason that drives me crazy with these little things, but I wish this kind of fake-lie didn't exist.  I have suffered of this many times, I know exactly how it is, and it hurts a lot. One day, I'll find out why people lie so normally.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, I'm chatting at the messenger, right now, with a plenty of nerds/geeks about the championship of ragnarök. I suck at this, but Rapha thinks I'll be ok. So, I'll try to play like a true nerd, saying lol and this sort of thing. By the way, I'm reinstalling it, beacause I did something with  the game, which doesn't want to open any longer. I deserve, yeah.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, well, well; I think I'll go to sleep. In fact, I'm not sleepy. But I need to get up very early tomorrow and go to school and have two difficult tests (ok, that's the second time I talk about this here, but I'm very nervous, hunph!).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And Sherlock Holmes rocks!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;pre&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" &gt;If life is a river and your heart is a boat&lt;br /&gt;And just like a water baby, baby, born to float,&lt;br /&gt;And if life is a wild wind that blows way on high,&lt;br /&gt;And your heart is Amelia dying to fly,&lt;br /&gt;Heaven knows no frontiers and I've seen heaven in your&lt;br /&gt;eyes&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-1857817153151966702?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/1857817153151966702/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=1857817153151966702' title='0 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/1857817153151966702'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/1857817153151966702'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/no-frontiers.html' title='No Frontiers.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-3578301290564399646</id><published>2007-11-25T15:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-25T16:27:20.020-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Goodnight, goodnight.</title><content type='html'>I was going to write here like I was someone else, a character; but I decided not to do this. Well, I think I'll start talking about me, just a little.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My name is Priscila, I'm in the second year of high school and I'm so fucking tired of doing many courses at the same time. Well, french, enslish, spanish and piano. I like all of them, but sometimes I don't have time to do other things. Better: to do nothing.&lt;br /&gt;I love to write and that's my life. Or I think it is. I love to read too. The truth is that I cannot love many things or people.&lt;br /&gt;I love &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"&gt;him&lt;/span&gt;. I am completely sure about this. He is the most important person in my life. Forever and ever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The end. I'm not too much.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Believe me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tomorrow I'll have physics, chemistry and french tests. But I'm really nervous for the piano presentation. That's my first and... I'm so afraid it'll go wrong. My hands will tremble, and  I  won't be able to play.  Oh, god bless me!  And the worst thing ever: he'll not be there to see me and to wish me luck and say that everything will be okay.&lt;br /&gt;I'm out of mind, I cannot do this... really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;pre style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;The room was silent as we all tried so hard to&lt;br /&gt;remember&lt;br /&gt;The way it feels to be alive&lt;br /&gt;The day that he first met her&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-3578301290564399646?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/3578301290564399646/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=3578301290564399646' title='0 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/3578301290564399646'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/3578301290564399646'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/goodnight-goodnight.html' title='Goodnight, goodnight.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754858766139881780.post-2517281413415254895</id><published>2007-11-25T15:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-25T15:35:18.370-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hey.</title><content type='html'>-&gt;Today has been a normal day: &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;boring&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;old-fashioned&lt;/span&gt; (yeah!) and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;superficial&lt;/span&gt;. Sometimes my life sucks.  I love to do many things here, inside me, but now and then  I feel like running away from home. In his arms. All I have always wanted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss doing interesting things. I want to travel around the world, write about new and unwritten people. People: they are my obsession. Their mood, their  movements and gestures. Is there anything more... perfect?&lt;br /&gt;But, on the other hand, I cannot see their own way to be. They can be calm, friendly, completely peaceful. And, also, violent, selfish and petty. They are the both sides of a currency. That's abnormal, people are both, not just one. They have two faces, two spaces for just one matters.&lt;br /&gt;Nevertheless, I could not wish they were different, understand? They are so strange to me like this, and that strangeness make me very... I do not know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok, forget about this stuff. First of all, I don't even know whom I'm writting for. Well, I'd bet to say... for me. I think I am such a selfish. Always me and me and me. That's why I started with this blog, kind of diary. Well, I'll take a shower, but I'll be right back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3754858766139881780-2517281413415254895?l=dustofsecrets.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/feeds/2517281413415254895/comments/default' title='Postar comentários'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=3754858766139881780&amp;postID=2517281413415254895' title='0 Comentários'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2517281413415254895'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/3754858766139881780/posts/default/2517281413415254895'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dustofsecrets.blogspot.com/2007/11/hey.html' title='Hey.'/><author><name>priscila b.</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='13' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FBcQjBrTmu8/Tt1XsEXJpoI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ecev1xaLAos/s220/Clipboard02.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
