Air Lacks To Me

Air lacks This to me is the story of the only man to conquer the sidereal space. The Russia mother generated the strongest men of the Land, of which I am brother. She writes myself in the rock that the sky is of the Russians. All will know that, if not yet we dominate the Land is time question, therefore the sky already belongs in them. The exit of the field of the Land was painful, little if comparing with the exercises carried through before the trip.

Still thus, I did not find that it would die, but that it would resist pra to see the image that now I contemplate: the blue Land. I am gravitating has 3 hours and now I only have condition to take the pencil and for to write me it. Still well that it did not only bring the penxs, because here it nothing scratches out. The ship functions perfectly; I listen to the Base with clarity; the visibility is very good. I am not sentimental, but I confess that I cried quanda vi the total escuridade of the space, immense before the smallness of our house. It never passed for my mind to arrive until here, although always to desire to be pilot of the Air Force, following to the tradition of my family.

space, however, inhabited the field of the impossible one, inalcanvel it. When it passed that terrible and stranger sensation to be being compressed for g forces, being able to open the eyes and to see that imensido, then I cried out: ' ' Galileu! The Land is round same! ' '. Air lacks to me since that it leaves the Land. The breath is not natural, but forced. To any it tires me effort: I go to rest. Desire to come back pra my Russia and to count to them, eye-knot-eye, everything what vi daqui of the sidereal space. Debtor for the support. Kiss to them it face. Soon we will see in them. Today he is 10 of April of 1961.

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Histories of friendship (i) Taste to hear histories. Also of relembrar them e, clearly, I appreciate to repass them. Thus, to each I recount, a new point, and people go if appropriating of other people’s history, catching hitchhiking, assuming participation. When in them we do not become definitive personages or until, depending on the identifications and the changed emotions, people also turn protagonist. Then I go to count what I heard of a very dear friend. It is a history of love, or at least a small illustration of the feeling lived for it.

Luiza was apaixonadssima. A Italian in one of its exits knows to dance and the attraction is sudden. As soon as called it to bailar, its skill of gentleman, its elegant transport, its ways of had made gentleman it to tremble with the feet to the head. It until already had lost the hopes to find so requintado and thus pleasant somebody at the same time. Already she walked half person without illusions and she left in the week ends exclusively to have fun themselves and to dance, what it adored to make.

But in that night it seemed that something of new went to roll. When it left house, to if looking in the mirror, perceives a different brightness in the eyes, a quentura in the hands, a good omen. so soon entered in the hall with its non-separable friend (same I), felt that the night would be special. From then on, I can count what I know, what I witnessed. Later start to tell in third person. We were for our table, that already was captive. Nor we seat well, a man wearing social shirt and necktie, was come close to us and called my friend to dance. It thanked the invitation, but she asked for a time to it, saying that people had finished to arrive and that it would not like to leave its friend (I) alone in the table.

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