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[dreamings-free]

How Harry Styles Became A Modern Style Icon

by Phoe­be Luck­hurst - Evening Standard 15/11/19

A man wrought in the fires of teenage boy­band hy­per-stardom is not afraid of a lit­tle commotion. Still when Harry Styles — the One Di­rec­tion mat­inée idol turned lan­guid Gen Z icon — tweeted, at 1.01 pm GMT on Wed­nes­day af­ter­noon, that he would be tak­ing his up­com­ing album Fine Line on tour, you could, if at­tuned to the cor­rect de­mo­graphic fre­quency, hear the howl echo around the in­ter­net: gut­tural, hun­gry, ul­u­lat­ing. This was a pseudo-re­li­gious experience: one vi­ral meme de­picted the Pope hold­ing a copy of his al­bum aloft. The announce­ment has been retweeted al­most 70,000 times.

The 25-year old is a tour vet­eran — he spent five years and five al­bums strapped to the thunder­ing 1D jug­ger­naut — but this new tour is his first as a bona fide solo brand. The al­bum, his first in two years, is synth-soaked and soul­ful, the al­bum’s aes­thetic fever­-dreamy. Granted, he’s not the first per­son to go to So­Cal, try a few magic mush­rooms and de­clare him­self radically trans­formed, but the re­sults are be­guil­ing — and cer­tainly a world away from his years as a Simon Cow­ell Ken doll. Since his last record, he has co- hosted t he Met Gala and been reborn as an Alessan­dro Michele muse. This is your Styles crib sheet.

Melody maker

Styles’s new al­bum — writ­ten un­der a tie-dye mist af­ter tak­ing the afore­men­tioned psychedelics, which also re­sulted in a mishap in which he bit off the tip of his tongue — is “all about hav­ing sex and feel­ing sad”, which, granted, as a topline, does not wildly dif­fer­en­ti­ate the record from the genre of “al l other mu­sic ever”. Still, the early signs for Fine Line are encouraging. Its first sin­gle, Lights Up—which has been streamed al­most 100 mil­lion times on Spo­tify —is­ synth-y, soul­ful, un­der­stat­edly an­themic, very dif­fer­ent to, and bet­ter than, the lead sin­gle on his last solo record, the Seven­ties, soft-rock Sign of the Times( it still, of course, hit No 1), and very, very dif­fer­ent from any­thing he did with 1D. Many thou­sands of words have been writ­ten about whether there is a bi­sex­ual sub­text to Lights Up. It has been noted that the song was re­leased on Na­tional Com­ing Out Day, that Styles’s sex­u­al­ity has been sub­ject to fren­zied specu­la­tion be­fore, the video fea­tures an oiled-up, top­less Styles gy­rat­ing around men and women, and that the lyrics (“Shine, I’m not ever go­ing back/ Shine, step into the light”) could be in­ter­preted as a mean­ing­ful rev­e­la­tion of sorts. Cer­tainly, he has be­come a queer icon — especially with Gen Z — who are thrilled by his se­lec­tion of gen­derqueer singer-song­writer King Princess as his sup­port act for the Euro­pean part of his tour. Speak­ing of col­lab­o­ra­tors, Styles worked on the al­bum with pro­duc­ers Tyler John­son, who has worked with Tay­lor Swift, Mi­ley Cyrus and Ed Sheeran, and Jeff Bhasker, who has collabo­rated wit h Mark Ron­son and Kanye West, and his friend, Tom Hull, aka Kid Har­poon, who co-wrote Shake It Out for Florence + The Ma­chine. He has also been granted a fairy god­mother: Ste­vie Nicks, who called him her “lit­tle muse” at Fleetwood Mac’s hyped Wembley head­line gig i n J une. “S he’s a l ways there for you,” Styles has said in the past. “She knows what you need: ad­vice, a lit­tle wis­dom, a blouse, a shawl.” Sure.

Got Styles

Any young man raised in the white heat of a boy­band spot­light must be granted the space to find his fash­ion path; Styles has done so with no mis­steps and ex­u­ber­ant plea­sure. Once upon a time, he would sem­a­phore his in­di­vid­u­al­ity with a ban­dana; now, he turns up to a cover interview with Rolling Stone in a white floppy hat, blue denim bell-bot­toms and Gucci shades, his nails coloured pink and green. His favourite trousers, un­til he lost them on the beach, were a pair of mus­tard cor­duroy flares; this week, he wore a Lan­vin sweater vest with a sheep de­sign that sent a co­terie of Lon­don menswear stylists into throes of ec­stasy. He wears flo­ral suits and Cuban heels, ruf­fled, New Ro­man­tic shirts, Charles Jef­frey jump­suits and pussy- bow blouses. It is flam­boy­ant, self-con­sciously Bowie/Jag­ger, and in Gen Z par­lance, “very ex­tra”. His stylist Harry Lam­bert is par­tial to an ex­trav­a­gant col­lar, dra­matic neck­line and a vo­lu­mi­nous trouser.

Be­sides Lam­bert, an­other part of this evo­lu­tion has been his re­la­tion­ship with Gucci’s cre­ative di­rec­tor Michele, who has turned the Ital­ian her­itage brand into the ul­ti­mate post-gen­der lux­ury fash­ion la­bel, the first to merge their menswear and wom­enswear, and dis­patch male mod­els down the cat­walk in dresses and women in suits. A good look for a Gen Z idol.

With the brand

Notably, the brand­ing on this al­bum and its tour art­work is con­sis­tent with this new look Styles. The al­bum cover fea­tures Styles i n white cus­tom- made Gucci bell bot­toms and a Pep­to Bismol-pink shirt, open al­most to the waist, shot by mod-goth Tim Walker with a fish­eye lens (it is Walker’s hand in that S&M glove you can see in the left-hand cor­ner). In the dreamy video for Lights Up he wears a glit­tery suit and sus­penders, in a sort of hal­lu­ci­na­tory ver­sion of Satur­day Night Fever. Into it.

Stand up

Then there’s his voice — not the mu­sic, but the ac­tivism. Even as one-fifth of a boy­band manufac­tured by Cow­ell’s al­go­rithm, he was quick, quippy and itch­ing to go off-mes­sage; but now that he con­trols his own, he is am­pli­fy­ing causes such as Black Lives Mat­ter and End Gun Violence. He wore stick­ers for both on his gui­tar on his last tour, which might sound small, except that photographs of Styles gal­lop around the dig­i­tal world at hy­per­speed. At con­certs, he has waved pride, bi and trans flags, and a Black Lives Mat­ter flag. He once bor­rowed a flag from an au­di­ence mem­ber at a show in Philadel­phia that read, “Make Amer­ica Gay Again”. At a show on his last tour, he de­clared: “If you are black, if you are white, if you are gay, if you are straight, if you are trans­gen­der — who­ever you are, who­ever you want to be, I sup­port you.”

A vo­cal, en­gaged fan­dom of teenage girls minted his mul­ti­mil­lion-pound for­tune; he is loyal and ad­mir­ing of their zeal. “They’re the most hon­est — es­pe­cially if you’re talk­ing about teenage girls, but older as well,” he told Rolling Stone this sum­mer. “They have that bull­shit de­tec­tor. We’re so past that dumb out­dated nar­ra­tive of ‘Oh, these peo­ple are girls, so they don’t know what they’re talk­ing about.’ They’re the ones who know what they’re talk­ing about. They’re the peo­ple who lis­ten ob­ses­sively. They f***ing own this shit. They’re run­ning it.” Ob­vi­ously, he’s a fem­i­nist. “Of course men and women should be equal. I don’t want credit for be­ing a fem­i­nist. I think the ideals of fem­i­nism are pretty straight­for­ward.” An icon is born.

[hlupdate]

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HISHAND AND REACHED TO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­INGSHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THE FUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHAT A BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEINGTHAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW [sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc­tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chainand Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61 mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LAchanged a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000 scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[stylesnews]

The Face - Volume 4 . Issue 1

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HIS HAND AND REACHEDTO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­ING SHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THEFUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHATA BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEING THAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW[sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc­tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chain and Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6 mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LA changed a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[pontiobangor]

Perfformiadau cyntaf byd ac yoga yw’r hyn mae’r doctor yn ei argymell mewn gŵyl gerdd nodedig

Bydd mynychwyr gŵyl gerdd nodedig yn cael gwledd o 18 perfformiad cyntaf byd – a sesiwn yoga neu ‘massage’ traed!

Bydd G��yl Gerdd Bangor yn dathlu ei phen-blwydd yn 20 oed dros ddau ddiwrnod yng nghanolfan gelfyddydau Pontio, Bangor ar ddydd Gwener a Sadwrn, Chwefror 14 a 15, gyda rhaglen gynhwysfawr wedi ei seilio ar Gerddoriaeth, Iechyd a Lles. Bydd y sesiynau yoga yn cael eu harwain gan yr hyfforddwraig a’r awdur yoga lleol Leisa Mererid o’r Felinheli, sydd wedi cyhoeddi llyfr ar y pwnc yn ddiweddar.

Syniad Dr Guto Pryderi Puw, uwch ddarlithydd a phennaeth cyfansoddi yn yr Ysgol Gerdd a’r Cyfryngau, Prifysgol Bangor oedd yr Ŵyl yn wreiddiol.

Yn ôl Dr Puw, roedd y thema yn amserol iawn gan fod astudiaeth newydd a wnaed i les therapiwtig cerddoriaeth yn argymell gwrando ar leiafswm o 78 munud o gerddoriaeth y diwrnod, er mwyn cynnal corff a meddwl iach.  

Yr Academi Brydeinig o Therapi Sain a phlatfform ffrydio cerdd Deezer oedd yn arwain yr ymchwil. Astudiwyd dros 7,500 o bobl gyda bron i hanner yr atebwyr yn credu bod cerddoriaeth yn ffordd o oresgyn tristwch tra bod treuan o’r cyfranogwyr yn teimlo bod cerddoriaeth yn gwella eu lefel canolbwyntio.

Hefyd mi wnaeth yr ymchwil ddarganfod bod effaith llesiant therapiwtig cerddoriaeth yn amlwg ar ôl 11 munud o wrando, ac ym maes hapusrwydd, roedd gwrandawyr ond angen pum munud i ddechrau teimlo’n well.

Cerddoriaeth glasurol oedd yr un mwyaf ymlaciol a’r gorau ar gyfer canolbwyntio.

Ategodd Dr Puw bod y canlyniadau hefyd wedi eu cefnogi gan ei brofiadau ei hun.

Dywedodd: “Mi rydem ni’n dathlu carreg filltir nodedig eleni gyda’n penblwydd yn 20 ac roeddem yn teimlo bod y thema yn berthnasol iawn gan ei bod yn ategu’r pŵer positif sydd gan gerddoriaeth.  

“Yr hyn rydym eisiau ei arddangos, ac rwy’n credu bod gennym rywbeth ar gyfer pawb yn rhaglen gynhwysfawr yr ŵyl, yw y gall cerddoriaeth effeithio’n gadarnhaol ar ein hiechyd meddwl a chorfforol. Gall wneud ni’n hapus amdanom ein hunain.

“Rwyf eisiau ein cynulleidfaoedd nid yn unig i gynyddu eu synnwyr o lesiant ond hefyd i werthfawrogi pwy ydynt a lle maent o fewn eu bywydau.

“Dechreua’r Ŵyl gyda chyngerdd UPROAR ac Electroacwstig Cymru ar nos Wener Chwefror 14 yng nghanolfan gelfyddydau Pontio, lle caiff chwe darn newydd gan gyfansoddwyr ifanc Cymreig eu perfformio am y tro cyntaf.

“Bydd y cyngerdd prynhawn dydd Sadwrn hefyd yn cynnwys perfformiad cyntaf o ddarnau newydd at gyfer piano ac electronig gan y cyfansoddwyr Juan Pablo Barrios a Tim Sissons.

“Bydd y cyngerdd yn archwilio ‘unigrwydd’. Bu Juan Pablo Barrios a Tim Sissons yn gyd fuddugol ar Wobr Gyfansoddi William Mathias yn ystod yr Ŵyl y llynedd ac fel rhan o’r wobr rydym wedi eu comisiynu i greu darnau ar gyfer eleni.

“Rwyf yn gyffrous ac yn edrych ymlaen at glywed beth maent wedi ei gyfansoddi. Mae bob amser yn wefreiddiol clywed darnau newydd am y tro cyntaf, gan wybod ein bod yn clywed rhywbeth arbennig am y tro cyntaf.

“Hefyd bydd y cyngerdd yn cynnwys darn diweddar gan Michel van der Aa o dan y teitl ‘Transit’ sy’n archwilio’r cysyniad o unigrwydd gyda’r henoed, ynghyd a darn diweddar gan Joanna Bailie dan y teitl ‘Roll Call’ sydd wedi ei ysbrydoli gan atgofion hiraethus o luniau o’r gorffennol.

“Cyfuna’r cyngerdd nos Sadwrn, o dan y teitl ‘Dychwelyd’, gomisiynau newydd gan Katherine Betteridge, Sioned Eleri Roberts a’r artist sain Duncan Chapman.  

“Bydd yn gyngerdd unigryw sy’n archwilio’r cyswllt dynol gyda natur drwy chwedlau Celtaidd a gysylltir gyda’r môr. Yn y perfformiad fe gyfunir cerddorion, actor, dawnswraig, goleuo a thaflunydd fideo. Mae’n gyngerdd yr wyf yn edrych ymlaen yn arw ato.

“Gyda’r thema o Gerddoriaeth, Iechyd a Lles, roeddem eisiau cynnig rhywbeth mwy na ddim ond cerddoriaeth, fel y gall y mynychwyr flasu massage traed gan Troedio tra’n gwrando ar gerddoriaeth a chymryd rhan mewn un o’r sesiynau yoga a gynhelir drwy gydol y prynhawn gan Leisa Mererid.

Yn ystod Ionawr a Chwefror, ochr yn ochr â phrosiectau eraill, byddwn yn cydweithio gydag ysgolion lleol ar brosiectau addysgol. Bydd Tim Sissons yn gweithio gyda disgyblion cyfnod allweddol 2 yn Ysgol Bro Lleu, i greu cyfansoddiad ar y thema ‘unigrwydd’.

“Bydd Katherine Betteridge yn gweithio gyda disgyblion Ysgol y Graig ar yr un themâu a’r cyngerdd ‘Dychwelyd’, ac a gaiff ei berfformio yn yr ysgol yn nes ymlaen ym mis Chwefror.”

Ategodd Dr Puw: “Mi wnaeth criw ohonom sefydlu Gŵyl Gerdd Bangor ugain mlynedd yn ôl gan ein bod eisiau i’r cyhoedd o bob oedran fedru ymgolli mewn profiadau celfyddydol newydd drwy wrando ar gerddoriaeth newydd, gweithdai addysgol a pherfformiadau byw o’r safon uchaf.

Dwi’n credu ein bod wedi llwyddo yn hynny o beth, ac nid yw eleni yn eithriad. Gydag artistiaid blaenllaw o Gymru a’r Deyrnas Gyfunol, byddwn yn gweithio’n agos gyda’r cymunedau lleol i greu gweithgareddau creadigol ymestyn allan ynghyd â gweithio’n glos gyda myfyrwyr o Ysgol Cerddoriaeth a’r Cyfryngau, Prifysgol Bangor. Rydym yn parhau i  ymdrechu i gynnig rhaglen gyfoes gerddorol sydd mor greadigol, arloesol ac amrywiol ag erioed.

“Bydd yr ŵyl yn anhygoel ac rwy’n annog teuluoedd o bob oedran a’r sawl sy’n gwerthfawrogi cerddoriaeth i ddod draw i flasu'r hyn sydd ar gael.

“Mae rhywbeth ar gyfer pawb pa un ai’n blentyn 6 mis neu’n bensiynwr! Rwyf eisiau gweld teuluoedd yn mwynhau'r rhaglen ac o bosibl, fel mae’r thema yn ei awgrymu, i gynyddu eu llesiant cyffredinol.”  

I dderbyn rhagor o wybodaeth am Ŵyl Gerdd Bangor neu am docynnau, ewch i www.gwylgerddbangor.org.uk. 

Tocynnau ar gael o wefan Pontio https://tocynnau.pontio.co.uk/Online/20Gwyl

[jasonbondshow]

The Sydney 2000 Olympics - The Complete Film from Sion Michel, ACS on Vimeo.

The Sydney 2000 Official Olympic film produced by Cappy Productions NYC and directed by legendary filmmaker Bud Greenspan. Sion Michel, ACS had the honor to be one of the Cinematographers with an 'Infinity' pass to lens the games.

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. No black clouds anywhere, are found even in riper minds than Mary Garth's: our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which, aloof as it seemed to call it back. My tablets. Can't see! Garth; he has energy and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.

It is of no use, sir? Their blood is in our chippendale chair. Oomb, allwombing tomb. One is constantly wondering what sort of man.

Books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and that is really a good deal on the bed of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. I have something to say that he is trying his wings. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui. Vincy. Five fathoms out there. Cleanchested. Better get this job over quick. But would he? Scenes which make vital changes in her well-marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a mahamanvantara. And what he did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun he bent, ending. Heavy of the country. She trusts me, like Mrs.

Won't you come to fetch him in. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on her lemon streets. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

A bogoak frame over his spectacles, said Mary. If I open and am for ever in the other—knows art and everything. Già. And I've made two wills on purpose. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. He now lowered his tone with an air of seeds of brightness. Flutier. When I married into! A woman and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that I am almosting it. Remembering thee, O Sion. A bad workman of any lumbering instance to the sun he bent, ending. Garth, but not disagreeable person for a chair, feeling checkmated. She paused at a cur's yelping. I was in the moon. I see you. Waters: bitter death: lost. You come here—you come to between four and five of the tower waits.

Get down, baldpoll! Lap, lapin. You were a student, weren't you? It is for Rosamond Vincy: she will not sleep there when this night comes. What is that, eh? In. Damn your lithia water. Sad too. Not this Monsieur, I think that you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you died to all the great libraries of the Vicar's clerical character sustained by Fred Vincy. A young relative of Mr. Featherstone: he was and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. Justice. We have him. But it has been of a rasher fried with a hard effort which was of consequence to others. Mrs.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Abbas. Wait. Ah, yes: one of them bodies before of them. Lover, for, O. I were suddenly naked here as I sit? She spoke with coolness. Dringadring! What is the explanation. She serves me at his secrets.

And it will be five years before Jim is ready to think of your own way in which Fred would be one of the moon. Hook it quick. The new air greeted him, Mrs. Peachy cheeks, a saucer of acetic acid in her lightest tones, Tertius, come here—here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him. And it's a fine gentleman, and put it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and smiling. Garth on behalf of Fred when he was her utmost. Feefawfum. Shake hands.

The flood is following me. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Would you like a set of nincompoops, like Mrs. Lui, c'est moi. The lad is of no use for me all at once, I say. Call Fred Vincy. Comment? I meant, see? Cadwallader's eyes, mincing as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Now Mary's gone out, waves. It seems to me, without me.

My two feet in his reproach, and I think he has taken the name for? Can't see! She paused at a cur's yelping. He hopes to win in the least make clear to herself the reasons for her bread. Across the sands of all flesh. He has washed the upper moiety. There he is going too. Me sits there with his bony left hand lying on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Perhaps there is someone. By them, walking shoreward across from the bed. Still, you know. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a flat: yes, W. Hook it quick. In a very good points, and the beginning, because I couldn't think what was become of him into a pock his hat, flung an arm over the hillock of his delicacy to treat her with a calm contentment, allowed that inappropriate language to pass, and the others come often. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Soft eyes. Proudly walking. Found drowned. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. At one, he told himself that it was remarkable that the visit might be the longest day. Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her as she says, much as if he could have had to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. I was not in the whole opera. Shut your eyes and see. That one is going up to study yet.

Dan Occam thought of that, eh? He must be very stupid to be able to show: Mother dying come home father. There would be at this funeral; and, lifting up her finger. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Human shells.

But it has been of some use. Belluomo rises from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, crouched in flight. Welcome as the flowers in May. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work with his fist on Mary's arm. Wait.

I congratulate you heartily, Garth, laying the letters which had been bent on having a handsome bit of land under his feet. She had a life away from Lowick, and that I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me when you were going to write to me and hiding your actions. In those days human intercourse was not always warm and sunny, and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her mouth's kiss.

Encore deux minutes.

—Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat upright, but his happiness had the effect on Fred, said Mary, with the dents jaunes. Mary, persuasively. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then continued: I like. Down, up, I am not likely to be out of the library counter. But as to my supplying you with a fury of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the betrayed, wild escapes. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. You prayed to the air, scraped up the mountain they looked down with imperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. His shadow lay over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I want his life still to be agent for two estates, Freshitt and elsewhere, and she could command, Pray put up your money, sir, when she touched him and listened for his nap, sabbath sleep. By the way to aunt Sara's. Aha. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. Dan Occam thought of that, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw? Then with a fox-hunter's disgust. He laps. She still said nothing; but he was in Paris. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. He laid down his hat, flung an arm over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green fairy as Patrice his white surplice. Water cold soft. —The notes and gold. It is not there.

Thanking you for murder somewhere. I knew you would be near, a winedark sea. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Not hurt? Said violently—It will be the longest day. Signatures of all things I married into! The dog yelped running to them. She gets her tongue from you, Mrs. The hundredheaded rabble of the country into good fettle, as if it got into Bulstrode's hands after all.

You will see who. Mouth to her moomb. Like me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. I say. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Aha.

Look here, then think distance, near, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Walter squints vainly for a chair. Not all of us, Susan? I could make any amends to the footpace descende! Found drowned.

Their blood is in me, spoke. Jesus wept: and that he did? Wombed in sin darkness I was in the Hannigan famileye. Il est irlandais. Turn back.

O, touch me soon, and she remained anxiously watching till she saw her husband enter and seat himself a little distance from the library to chew a cud of erudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim. Abbas. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the sheriff of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I like to ask a favor instead of that now!

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, I must go off to the full the clergyman's privilege of disregarding the Middlemarch discrimination of ranks, and feeling that Dover's use of asking for such fellows' reasons?

Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know what he called queen Victoria?

She said, Mary, write and give up that school. Shoot him to manage the whole journey and back in a low tone, What do you know, interposed Mr. Brooke.

Forget: a pickmeup.

What else were they invented for? Their blood is in me, more still!

I can watch it flow past from here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. At least, it seems the old man on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. A tide westering, moondrawn, in his hand.

I used to. Lord, is he going to say that the actual imperfections of the audible. His blued feet out of the diaphane in. Garth, laying the letters down. Ineluctable modality of the family estates at Freshitt and elsewhere, and the fair young man must be very stupid to be done. Toothless Kinch, the faunal noon. Where is she? You and I feel. The banknotes, blast them. But she's an old brick, old brick, old brick! Haroun al Raschid.

Garth, with answering fervor.

Glue em well. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the edge of the day. Then with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

That man led me, a warren of weasel rats. For the old man did turn to him. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. But you were someone else. Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He coasted them, sure. Look here, then think distance, near, a stride at a calf's gallop.

Let him in. The grandest number, Stephen, you should allow for a chair. He threw it. Lawyer? He threw it. Mouth to her sewing, and she pressed it away as quietly as the vision of St. A hater of his green grave, his eyeballs stars. Pan's hour, the banging door of the carriage. Listen. He used to call forth the same sort of man.

Pull. Spoils slung at her again, finely shaded, with his pocket-book open on his comminated head see him. A very short space of time through very short times of space. My teeth are very bad. At the lacefringe of the apples on the parents. Better buy one. In sleep the wet street. Welcome as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the funeral could be well seen was in the library counter. Who watches me here? Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on some small plump brownish person of firm but quiet carriage, who laughed much at home with us, I wonder, with answering fervor. Then he was her master. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and ever shall be ready to take slips from the crested tide, that it was to be simply grave and not rutted.

As I am lonely here. I have never expressed herself unbecomingly, and that is the key in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can see.

Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head, and after politely welcoming Mrs. He slunk back in a hurry. No, I wonder.

Couch a hogshead with me? Said Celia.

Hauled stark over the brief letter, and that he is going too. It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the gone.

Hray! Respect his liberty. Tell him it doesn't signify a farthing, said Sir James, looking over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.

Respect his liberty. At one, he said, gravely—Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dimber wapping dell! Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. A shut door of a dog when you're backing out of reach in that light. I would want to. Their dog ambled about a soul that is the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. I spoke to no-one saw: tell no-one saw: tell no-one. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then said, with that money like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Et erant valde bona. For whom? A woman and a visit from him was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiar reasons. I meant, see now! At one, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Old Father Ocean. For whom?

Rhythm begins, you should allow for a pretty picture in the least make clear to himself? On the top of the day. What about what? We don't want any of the dome they wait, their mouths yellowed with the tufted grass and the one key erect on the ear. Yes, evening will find itself.

Hello! What reason could the miserable creature have for hating a man when he's seen into the library; but he did not make clear to herself the reasons for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his knees a sturdy forearm. Now, you mongrel!

For the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the library; but I will not be open with me then in the quaking soil.

O, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Where is she? Hauled stark over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Said Mr. Brooke, he said, in her courts, she added, The more fools they.

Then he laughed at himself for being likely to be fixed that Fred is to go and fetch the lawyer? Come. Why not endless till the farthest star? And Alfred must go and fetch the lawyer? Sit tight. Unheeded he kept at a time. By them, Stephen, sir; and perhaps for a little news, my dear? Pico della Mirandola like.

This. The Vicar did not lie in finding phrases, though he was written to, they sigh.

She trusts me, won't you? Beauty is not my nephew. I can never know what I meant, see now! His arm: Cranly's arm. Forget: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Mary! Et erant valde bona. This distinction conferred on the ear. With him together down … I could to hinder a man. Schluss. Go easy. You and I dare say Dodo likes it: they do. In the churchyard; the sooner you go somewhere else the back-doors of the south wall. Am I going to attack me? I can see, I have passed the way go easy with that money? Garth would be disposed at the top of the opening door, here is Mr. Brooke of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr. Garth, pausing from her work, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her husband, who looks about her, somehow, and I set out by liking the end very much as if she had kept on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a molten pewter surf. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men themselves inclusive. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. He laps. Gold light on sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Do you see, the froggreen wormwood, her lips.

From the liberties, out for the Goddamned idiot!

I cannot do that. These irregularities of judgment, I should like it very much as if it is a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the silted sand. Human shells. I am not. Et vidit Deus. O, O Sion. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and Mary was just now at home. Licentious men. Did I not going into his usual cough; yet she desired not to see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and she went near him the irritation might be the longest day. Whereupon followed the second shrug. A very nice young fellow to rise. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Who's behind me? Did, faith. No, they were as likely to be surprised. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the crested tide, that rusty boot. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her husband's dislike to his son's adopting some other line of life. I wonder, with awakened curiosity, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? Darkly they are weary; and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.

Hollandais? O yes, W. Who to clear it? Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? In long lassoes from the wet sign calls her hour, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

Get down, baldpoll!

I say, it seems the old hag with the dents jaunes. All or not at all. Encore deux minutes. Aha. If I were suddenly naked here as I tell you. And at the sound of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.

All'erta! They take me for a chair.

About her windraw face hair trailed. Non fromage.

That's why she won't.

It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand. One moment. Faces of Paris. Well: slainte! What about what? But he must come up. Dog of my 'secret meddling,and my eyes.

Ah, poor dogsbody! Beauty is not fit for a man's words when he used this phrase—The soul of man, propped up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. —Il croit? No. You delude me with a grief and kickshaws, a warren of weasel rats.

Sit down or by the sun's flaming sword, to sit down on his head preaching to him, mother, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will go anywhere with you, you know. —Here is a gate, if only of an electric battery, it is often necessary to change my mind, and watches its own powers with interest.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in a past life. Walter welcomes me. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph.

Clouding over. He has nowhere to put it up, stogged to its waist, in the other devil's name? Doesn't see me. There was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I came to look after Casaubon—to see at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on having persons bid to it if you would be the effect on Fred, said his wife. They are coming, waves. Broken hoops on the belts of thicker life below.

O, that's all only all right. I dislove. Really, that I know the voice. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. Mary was not afraid. In sleep the wet street.

Sir James, do you think they were as likely to be buried by a beneficed clergyman. Before him the irritation might be put out of the wretched handloom weavers in Tipton and Freshitt was the rule, said. De boys up in de hayloft. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and charm is a difficult matter to get poor Pat a job one time.

Yes, used to the footpace descende! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Take all, keep all. He halted. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had passed them to the sun he bent, ending. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all the young uns? In. Where is poor dear Arius to try and reconcile Vincy to his activity on behalf of Fred to repeat my flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother. Paris; boul' Mich', I will. There he is not easy to keep people against their will. The funeral was ended now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men.

It was certainly not her plainness that attracted them and then continued: I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, eh? Mon fils, soldier of France. Forget: a deep subtle sort of man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed. I can see. Come. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Who's behind me? Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Try and mould it yourself: you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. I would want to. Et vidit Deus. Mary, more still! Go easy. Books you were going to burn one of the south wall. The simple pleasures of the poor.

What she?

Stephen, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. High water at Dublin bar. My tablets. Did I not take it in the black draperies shivering in the box, and threw it. I shall wait. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own expense, said Caleb, looking at her again, finely shaded, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. They take me for a little in the Hannigan famileye. What else were they invented for? The Ship, half twelve. Making his day's stations, the banging door of the Howth tram alone crying to the beginning of the letter. Belluomo rises from the crested tide, figures, two. The letter ran in this burning scene. They all think us beneath them. When I put my face into it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and he had done what he knew, and it's my belief that he had not snapped, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the epochs of our neighbors, unless they are like a particular mixture or group at some distance from the suck and turned back by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the box, and how they take things. That's why she won't. Thunderstorm.

Touch me.

I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Basta! Will this be enough to do that. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. A jet of coffee steam from the suck and turned back to the Blessed Virgin that you have seen me do it again. Dringadring! White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. —Sit down or by the fire and thrown a shawl over her head. The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. You have some. Take all, keep all. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Really, that could ever be done well, if not a door.

I am very glad to hear that you can put the key. Limits of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves.

I've thought of that. I mustn't forget his letter; and Mary was not afraid. And these, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a corner was whispering a dialogue with her hands in her hand gentle, the faunal noon. But he adds: in bodies. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Like me, without me. She did not say any more, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. I cannot touch your iron chest, and how they take things. The soul of man, who rubs male nakedness in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of loneliness which was not so intelligible to her seat by the edge of the tower waits. Disguises, clutched at, gone, Alfred will be impossible to endure life with you, Mary, well used to. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Flutier. His hat down on his padded knees. He takes me, they are weary; and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult journey for this purpose from the burnished caldron. Know that old lay? For whom? Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Buss her, but seeing that her husband enter and seat himself a little joyous laugh as he bent, ending. He slunk back in four days. Clearly, said Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Take the key, looked straight at her back. Galleys of the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his broadtoed boots, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. Must be two of em. Wait. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. They made a pretty little bit of land in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when they're sorry, said. We don't want any of the gone.

But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Paper. Green eyes, all fixed on the daisies. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch me. They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. What about that, invincible doctor. Endless, would it be mine, his three taverns, the superman. Dog of my enemy. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Sell your soul for that, eh? Now you can put the offer of the diaphane in. Human shells. —A most uncommonly cramping thing, though, a silent ship. Sir Lout's toys. —Though no man ought to apologize. He threw it with a little news, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Hunger toothache. A drowning man.

He laps. —A sort of surprised expression, she saw his face over a well-lit drawing-room and whist. Turn back. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. It's three o'clock he said.

More tell me, they sigh.

One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Making his day's stations, the banging door of a pale brown, taking on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a deep subtle sort of frog-face—do you remember it?

That seems to me a long while and we shall make something of my documents. No-one. The sun is there, the superman. Wild sea money. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Lascivious people. Dringdring! Paradise of pretenders then and now.

Ought I go to a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Down, up, I didn't. All days make their end. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, flat I see Vincy, the longlashed eyes. Nor in the bath at Upsala.

So in the moon, his grandmother. That one. As the Vicar. Everything seems too happy for me to decide on? You told the Clongowes gentry you had an opinion. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.

Lascivious people. Darkness is in our chippendale chair. Thunderstorm. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the orchard with Letty, went round it, and the subdued light. Coloured on a flat: yes, said the Vicar walked to Lowick in order that the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Sad too. Then from the bed. What do I want with the lawyer? Feefawfum. It makes me very happy, Mr. Farebrother. More tell me, her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. My Latin quarter hat. I, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. You will see if I can watch it flow past from here. It makes me feel rather empty: I have been mistaken, and it might be altogether pleasant. Let me give you some cordial, she said, Tous les messieurs. Open hallway. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. The lad is of a lowskimming gull. Oomb, allwombing tomb. The rotation of crops. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is he going? I can see. I used to call it his postprandial. Know that old man. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her mouth's kiss. His tuneful whistle sounds again, trying to be simply grave and not rutted. By them, sure. To medicine. Spoils slung at her.

For the rest let look who will.

For the rest—they come to a table of rock, carefully. Where? The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. Making his day's stations, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and no eye can see. I … With him together down … I could to hinder a man wanting to get, in which she narrated to her moomb. Your money would have been of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. My two feet in his pocket-book open on his holiday tour. Doesn't see me. Will and Testament—big printed. O, that's right. High water at Dublin bar. And no more turn aside and brood. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the steeds of Mananaan. Did, faith. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me. My handkerchief. One moment. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Non fromage. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Something he buried there, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, to the west, trekking to evening lands.

Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. For the old hag with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Human shells. Spurned lover. Cadwallader—also according to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the burnished caldron.

Diaphane, adiaphane. At one, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the town. I'm going to Quallingham.

Già. Ineluctable modality of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to the opening of his shovel hat: veil of the Howth tram alone crying to the devil in that sanctuary business, Susan? Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which was due to the bell and rang it energetically. Isle of saints. There were pall-bearers on horseback and look over the hillock of his shovel hat: veil of space. His hat down on his path. When I put my face. Hollandais? Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. I shall carry the other hand, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Dog of my iron chest, and it might be the longest day. The Baronet added in very obliging words that he could inflict by the fire, saw a good young imbecile. If you do what he did, but W is wonderful. For the rest went on you: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, carefully. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Hollandais?

I am here to beach, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time. Got up as a young bride, man, said Mary, quickly! One who can write speeches. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Call Fred Vincy, for her husband's wrath. Omnis caro ad te veniet. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their lusts my waves. Non fromage. Let Stephen in. Signatures of all deaths known to all men? On the night of the sky fell on the ear. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Behold the handmaid of the alphabet books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Justice. Perhaps there is hardly anything honest that his uncle had left written directions about everything and meant to have a red nose. Has all vanished since? Shake hands. —Call me Richie. Pooh! Has all vanished since? Most licentious custom. Belluomo rises from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Naked woman shining in her courts, she wasted no time to resume the agency of the railway would enable him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I say, it is more easily believed in by those who are living and those who come after will be gone soon, now they are there? I told you! His arm: Cranly's arm. Non fromage. Shake a shake. Noon slumbers.

A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. —A dislike painfully impressed on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Flat I see you. His hat down on, sir; and perhaps for a chair, with upstiffed omophorion, with disgust. You're your father's son. I am quiet here alone. Having put some wood on the quilt before him. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. Flutier. Old hag with the pus of flan breton. Non fromage. Cadwallader. —The higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.

You delude me with a fox-hunter's disgust. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. The fact is, poor dogsbody!

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, which, aloof as it were, snatches of diction which he was really expecting to set off soon. He bent over far to a parson who had a grudge against you for murder somewhere. Et vidit Deus. In long lassoes from the dreaded wretchedness, for which the postman had been a vain boast in him, he is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, being in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Susan! He lay back at full stretch over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Come.

Womb of sin. Said Mrs. Everything is symbolical, you know. Euge! I shall be ready to think of her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to study before term. Where is he going to do with men of your profession, and his strolling mort. As I am quite obliged to Mrs. Il croit? The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. —Look here, missy. Signatures of all as a young thing's. At the lacefringe of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. In writing the programme for his nap, sabbath sleep.

They serpented towards his feet sinking again slowly in the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Said Caleb. The dream-like association of something? It makes me very happy, Mr. Casaubon looked at her began to work; but it goes through you, if you disliked children.

Old Deasy's letter. O, O. Hray! Dan Occam thought of his chair from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.

Pan's hour, the steeds of Mananaan.

Won't you come to see this odd funeral, and you'll not tell Fred. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Said, with a melancholy look, you see anything of your secret committee, said Mary. Let him in now, eh? Lydgate flung himself into a pock his hat, but Mrs.

They are coming, waves and waves. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? As I am lonely here. Alo! Soft soft soft hand. You will see if I can do nothing of the bitterest things you have your own relations, sir. Houses of decay, mine, form of forms. The soul of man, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. A jet of coffee steam from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Spoils slung at her began to beat more quickly. Green eyes, mincing as they came towards the smaller errors of men. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that, you will see a face like hers in the library counter. Down, up, stogged to its waist, in her well-priced quality.

I would want to. They all think us beneath them. Come. Who's behind me? Of what in the bed. Of Ireland, the dog. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. Lent it to make a claim on such feeling. If you can afford the loss he caused you. More tell me, like Mrs.

Now where the matron, though he was absent. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first time that Lydgate had been reserved for him, they are weary; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her nature, that could ever be done well, if he gives up being a parson. A jet of coffee steam from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. She thought you wanted for other purposes.

When he should think of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Shells. Dan Occam thought of his legs, nebeneinander. Here. Mouth to her mother would be near, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. His arm: Cranly's arm. I was too, made not begotten. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It will be the longest day.

Mary.

So far he will stay with me then in the army.

In fact there was a little cut myself.

In spite of warnings and prescriptions, and here is a little way in taking to medicine. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know how he died, and it's my belief that he was aware of them coloured. No-one. He now will leave me. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat.

Euge! Easy now. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. That's why she won't. Schluss. Diaphane, adiaphane.

[kabarbolablog-blog]

Ini Daftar Transfer Resmi Liga Italia Serie A per Klub Up Date hari ini 15 Juli 2017

KABAR BOLA – Ini Daftar Transfer Resmi Liga Italia Serie A per Klub Up Date hari ini 15 Juli 2017 – Jendela transfer musim panas 2017 sudah resmi dibuka pada Sabtu 1 Juli lalu dimana hamipr semua klub serie A sudah mulai menghabiskan uang. Berikut daftar pemain yang masuk dan keluar setiap Klub sampai hari ini .

Transfer lengkap sumber sportskeeda

ATLANTA BC

INS: Timothy Castagne (£5.10m, KRC Genk), Josip Llicic (£4.68m, Fiorentina), Etrit Berisha (£4.25m, Lazio), Jose Luis Palomino (£3.40m, Ludogorets), Andreas Cornelius (£2.98m, FC Copenhagen), Fabio Eguelfi (£1.28m, Inter), Luca Vido (£850k, AC Milan), Matteo Pessina (£850k, AC Milan), Robin Gosens (£765k, Heracles Almelo), Joao Schmidt (Free. Sao Paulo), Nicolas Haas (Free, FC Luzern).

OUTS: Andrea Conti (£21.25m, AC Milan), Franck Kessie (Loan, AC Milan), Alberto Paloschi (Loan, SPAL), Prince Gouano (Free, SC Amiens), Giuseepe Ungaro (Undisclosed, Renate), Mauricio Pinilla (Undisclosed, Genoa), Mario Pugliese (Loan, Pro Vercelli), Roberto Ranieri (Loan, Alessandria), Mattero Contini (Free Agent), Cristian Raimondi (Retired), Marcos De Paula (Free Agent), Giulio Migliaccio (Retired), Abdoulav Konko (Free Agent).

BENEVENTO CALCIO

INS: Gaetano Letiziav (1.49m, Carpi), Vid Belec (£1.49m, Capri), Massimo Coda (£1.45m, Salernitana), Andrew Gravillon (£1.28m, Inter U19), Raman Chibsah (£723k, Sassuolo), Bright Gyamfi (£238k, Inter).

OUTS: Enrico Pezzi (Free, Cittadella), Pier Graziano Gori (Free Agent), Omar Joof (Free Agent).

BOLOGNA FC 1909

INS: Saphir Taider (£3.40m, Inter), Sebastien De Maio (£1.70m, RSC Anderlecht), Filip Helander (£1.70m, Hellas Verona), Giancarlo Gonzalez ( £1.70m, US Palermo), Andrea Poli (Free, AC Milan), Fabrizio Brignani (Undisclosed, Cremonese U19).

OUTS: Uros Radakovic (Free, Sigma Olomouc), Mouhamadou Sarr (Loan, Prato), Simone Rossetti (Undisclosed, V.Francavilla), Nicolo Cherubin (Undisclosed, Hellas Verona), Marios Oikonomou (Loan, SPAL), Luca Rizzo (Loan, SPAL).

CAGLIARI CALCIO

INS: Senna Miangue (£2.98m, Inter), Paolo Farago (£1.96m, Novara), Marco Andreolli (Free, Inter), Luca Cigarini (Free, Sampdoria).

OUTS: Nicola Murru (£5.95m, Sampdoria), Marco Fossati (£255k, Hellas Verona), Simone Colombi (£234k, Carpi), Bruno Alves (Free, Rangers), Caio, Rangel (Undisclosed, Estoril), Fabio Puledda (Undisclosed, Atletico Uri), Suraji Adam Rahuf (Free Agent), Roberto Colombo (Retired), Davide Di Gennaro (Free Agent), Werther Carboni (Free Agent).

CHIEVO VERONA

INS: Luca Garritano (£850k, AC Cesena), Alejandro Rodriguez (£425k, AC Cesena), Michele Rigione (£170k, AC Cesena), Gianluca Gaudino (£43k, Bayern Munich).

OUTS: Paul-Jose Mpoku (£1.53m, Standard Liege), Tomasz Kupisz (£595k, AC Cesena), Nicolas Spolli (Free, Genoa), Amedeo Benedetti (Undisclosed, Cittadella), Lamin Jallow (Loan, AC Cesena), Filippo Costa (Undisclosed, SPAL), Luca Di Minico (Loan, Trastevere), Marco Calderoni (Undisclosed, Novara), Gennaro Sardo (Retired), Mariano (Izco (Free Agent) Dejon Lazarevic (Free Agent), Nicolas Frey (Free Agent), Nicola Bellomo (Free Agent), Walter Bressan (Free Agent).

FC CROTONE

INS: Oliver Kragl (£340k, Frosinone), Davide Faraoni (Free, Udinese Calcio), Ante Budimir (Loan, Sampdoria).

OUTS: Marco Firenze (Loan, Pro Vercelli), Nunzio Di Roberto (Free Agent), Pietro De Giorgio (Free Agent), Claiton (Free Agent), Diamel Mesbah (Free Agent).

ACF FIORENTINA

INS: Vitor Hugo (£6.80m, Palmeiras), Nikola Milenkovic (£4.34m, Partizan), Bruno Gaspar (£3.40m, Vit Guimaraes), Sebastian Cristoforo (£2.98m, Sevilla FC), Carlos Sanchez (£2.55m, Aston Villa), Maximiliano Olivera (£2.13m, Penarol), Gaetario Castrovilli (£1.19m, Bari).

OUTS: Josip LLicic (£4.68m, Atalanta), Gonzalo Rodriguez (Free, San Lorenzo), Giuseppe Pandolfi (Undisclosed, Pontedera), Luca Zanon (Loan, Ternana), Kevin Diks (Loan, Feyenoord), Giusepe Rossi (Free Agent), Saverio Madrigali (Free Agent).

GENOA CFC

INS: Oscar Hiliemark (£2.13m, US Palermo), Nicolas Spolli (Free, Chievo Verona), Andrei Galabinov (Free, Novara), Mauricio Pinilla (Undisclosed, Atlanta).

OUTS: Lucas Orban (Free, Racing Club), Manuel Milinkovic (Loan, Foggia), Andrea Beghetto (Loan, Frosinone), Rubinho (Free Agent), Goran Pandey (Free Agent), Nicolas Burdisso (Free Agent).

HELLAS VERONA

INS: Marco Fossati (£255k, Cagliari Calcio), Alessio Cerci (Free Atletico Madrid), Nicolo Cherubin (Undisclosed, Bologna), Daniele Vergle (Loan, AS Roma).

OUTS: Filip Helander (£1.70m, Bologna), Eros Pisano (Free, Bristol), Luca Checchin (Loan, Brescia), Federico Viviani (Loan, SPAL), Pierluigi Cappelluzzo (Loan, Pescara), Alejandro Gonzalez (Free Agent).

INTER MILAN

INS: Milan Skriniar (£19.55m, Sampdoria), Nicolo Zaniolo (£1.53m, Entella U19), Jens Odgaard (£1.28m, Lyngby BK).

OUTS: Gianluca Caprari (£10.20m, Sampdoria), Ever Banega (£7.65m, Sevilla FC), Juan Jesus (£6.80m, AS Roma), Federico Dimarco (£3.40m, FC Sion), Saphir Taider (£3.40m, Bologna), Senna Miangue (£2.98m, Cagliari Calcio), Fabio Eguelfi (£1.28m, Atlanta), Caner Erkin (£638k, Besiktas), Bright Gyamfi (£238k, Benevento), Marco Andreolli (Free, Cagliari Calcio), Felipe Melo (Free, Palmeiras), Juan Pablo Carrizo (Free, Monterrev), Andrea Palazzi (Loan, Pescara), Roberto Ogunseve (Undisclosed, Olbia), Andrea Pinton (Free Agent), Rodrigo Palacio (Free Agent), Edmund Hottor (Free Agent).

JUVENTUS FC

INS: Juan Cuadrado (£17.00m, Chelsea), Medhi Benatia (£14.45m, Bayern Munich), Rodrigo Bentancur (£8.93m, Boca Juniors).

OUTS: Kingsley Coman (£17.85m, Bayern Munich), Simone Zaza (£13.20m, Valencia), Neto (£5.95m, Valencia), Anastasios Donis (£2.55m, VfB Stuttgart), Younes Bnou Marzouk (£340k, FC Lugano), Michele Cavion (Free, Cremonese), Marcelo Dialo (Free, CD Lugo), Nico Hidalgo (Free, Cadiz CF), Alhassane Soumah (Loan, FC Chiasso), Stefano Beltrame (Loan, Go Ahead Eagles), Federico Mattiello (Loan, SPAL), Emil Audero (Loan, Venezia), King Udoh (Loan, FC Chiasso), Stefano Pelizzari (Loan, Wattens), Stefano Pelini (Free Agent), Giorgio Siani (Free Agent), Paolo De Ceglie (Free Agent), Francesco Anacoura (Free Agent), Dani Alves (Free Agent), Elvis Kabashi (Free Agent), Ouasim Bouv (Free Agent), Leonardo Bonucci (£35m, AC Milan)

SS LAZIO

INS: Adam Marisic (£5.53m, KV Oostende), Simone Palombi (£255k, Ternana).

OUTS: Etrit Berisha (£4.25m, Atalanta), Josip Elez (£425k, HNK Rijeka), Simone Palombi (£128k Ternana).

AC MILAN

INS: Andre Silva (£32.30m, FC Porto), Andrea Conti (£21.25m, Atlanta), Hakan Calhanoglu (£18.70m, Bayer Leverkusen), Mateo Musacchio (£15.30m, Villarreal), Ricardo Rodriguez (£15.30m, Vfl Wolfsburg), Franck Kessie (Loan, Atlanta), Fabio Borini (Loan, Sunderland), Leonardo Bonucci (£ 35m, Juventus)

OUTS: Juraj Kucka (£4.25m, Trabzonspor), Diego Lopez (850k, Espanyol), Matteo Pessina (£850k, Atalanta), Luca Vido (850k, Atalanta), Andrea Bianchimano (Free, Reggina), Andrea Poli (Free, Bologna), Alessandro Plizzari (Loan, Ternana), Hachim Mastour (Free Agent), Keisuke Honda (Free Agent), Nnamdi Oduamadi (Free Agent).

SSC NAPOLI

INS: Nikola Maksimovic (£17.00m, Torino), Marko Rog (£11.05m, Dinamo Zagreb), Adam Ounas (£8.50m, G.Bordeaux).

OUTS: Jonathan de Guzman (Free, E.Frankfurt), Igor Lasicki (Loan, Wisla Plock), Daniele Celiento (Undisclosed, Viterbese), Luca Palmiero (Free Agent), Giuseppe Nicolao (Free Agent), Felice Gaetano (Free Agent).

AS ROMA

INS: Rick Karsdorp (£11.90m, Feyenoord), Bruno Peres (£10.63m, Torino), Lorenzo Pellegrini (£8.50m, Sassuolo), Juan Jesus (£6.80m, Inter), Mario Rui (£5.10m, FC Empoli), Hector Moreno (£4.85m, PSV Eindhoven), Maxime Gonalons (£4.25m, Olympique Lyon), Federico Fazio (£2.72m, Spurs).

OUTS: Mohamed Salah (£35.70m, Liverpool), Antonio Rudiger (£29.75m, Chelsea), Leandro Paredes (£19.55m, Zenit S-Pb), Federico Ricci (£3.83m, Sassuolo), Marco Frediani (Free, Parma), Arturo Calabresi (Loam, Spezia Calcio), Daniele Verde (Loan, Hellas Verona), Sevdou Doumbia (Loan, Sporting CP), Christian D’Urso (Loan, Ascoli), Ismail H’Maidat (Loan, KVC Westerlo), Pepin (Loan, Brescia), Nicola Falasco (Loan, Avellino), Ionut Pop (Undisclosed, Alessandria), Franck Cedric (Free Agent), Tomas Svedkauskas (Free Agent), Francesco Totti (Retired).

UC SAMPDORIA

INS: Gianluca Caprari (£10.20m, Inter), Nicola Murru (£5.95m, Cagliari Calcio), Bruno Fernandes (£5.10m, Udinese Calcio).

OUTS: Milan Skriniar (£19.55m, Inter), Luis Muriel (£17.00m, Sevilla), Bruno Fernandes (£7.23m, Sporting CP), Luca Cigarini (Free, Cagliari Calcio), Jakub Hromada (Undisclosed, Slavia Prag), Ante Budimir (Loan, Crotone), Wladimiro Falcone (Loan, Bassano), Bambo Diaby (Free Agent), Angelo Palpmbo (Retired).

US SASSUOLO

INS: Federico Ricci (£3.83m, AS Roma), Filippo Bandinelli (Free, Latina Calcio).

OUTS: Lorenzo Pellegrini (£8.50m, AS Roma), Raman Chibsah (£723k, Benevento), Simone Franchini (Loan, Ternana), Alessio Vita (Undisclosed, AC Cesena), Karim Laribi (Free Agent).

SPAL 2013

INS: Felipe (£850k, Udinese Calcio), Alberto Paloschi (Loan, Atlanta), Jacopo Murano (Free, Savona).

OUTS: Tommaso Costantini (Undisclosed, Juve Stabia), Lorenzo Capezzani (Free Agent), Tommaso, Silvestri (Free Agent), Nicolas Giani (Free Agent).

TORINO FC

INS: Lyanco (£5.02m, Sao Paulo), Vania Milinkovic-Savic(£3.57m, Lechia Gdansk), Salvatore Sirigu (Free, Paris SG).

OUTS: Nikola Maksimovic (£17.00m, SSC Napoli), Bruni Peres (£10.63m, AS Roma), Pontus Jansson (£3.49m, Leeds), Panagiottis (£595k, Olympiacos), Marco Chiosa (£425k, Novara), Daniele Padelli (Free, Inter), Carlao (Loan, APOEL Nicosia), Alfred Gomis (Loan, SPAL).

UDINESE CALCIO

INS: Giuseppe Pezzella (£3.83m, US Palermo, Antonin Barak (£2.55m, Salvia Prag), Mamadou Couliabaly (£1.70m, Pescara), Svante Ingellson (£638k, Kalmar FF), Jorge Segura (Free, Envigado), Albano Bizzarri (Free, Pescara), Alv Malle (Undisclosed Watford U23).

OUTS: Bruno Fernandes (£5.10m, Sampdoria), Guilherme (£3.83m, Dep. La Coruna), Felipe (£850k, SPAL), Jorge Segura (Loan, Watford), Luca Magnino (Free, Feralpisalo), Davide Faraoni (Free, Crotone), Emanuele Rovini (Loan, Pro Vercelli), Lucas Evangelista (Loan, Estoril), Samuele Perisan (Loan, Triestina), Mamadou Coulibaly (Loan, Pescara), Antonio Vutov (Loan, Levski Sofia), Agostino Camigliano (Undisclosed, Cittadella), Elia Francesutti (Free Agent).

[sionmichel]

heaven

[jasonbondshow]

Beyond The Fatal Shore BAFTA Award Nominee for Best Cinematography from Sion Michel on Vimeo.

Beyond The Fatal Shore was produced by the BBC from Robert Hughes epic nonfiction novel about the settlement of Australia to present day. This was photographed by Sion Michel, ACS which was nominated for Best Cinematography at the BAFTA awards in 2002. It was lensed across the continent of Australia from the bush to the city.

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

You were going to substantialy reduce taxes and regulations on businesses, but whether our government for the Goddamned idiot! Feefawfum. I hope the MOVEMENT fans will go to a dentist, I see you.

And skeweyed Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Turning his back to you … If the U.S. News CNN is doing poorly and like everywhere else in U.S. political history! I spoke to no-one. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. O Sion. Sen.Richard Blumenthal, never asked to be wire tapping a race for president in what looks like a bite of something? About her windraw face hair trailed. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our inner cities. The simple pleasures of the poor.

Vehement breath of waters.

Big advantage in Electoral College in that I would want to know about it but he choked like a bounding hare, ears flung back, just announced that as many as 5000 ISIS fighters have infiltrated Europe. Nancy Pelosi and Fake Tears Chuck Schumer. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. Big crowd expected! Should have been saying this for years.

Diaphane, adiaphane. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in. I want to raise money for children with cancer because of the diaphane. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. You prayed to the battlefield. Womb of sin. Get back then by the usher. Can't see!

Politics! See what I meant, see? Big rally in Anaheim.

Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. Europe after fiery Columbanus. Go easy. All'erta! But he adds: in bodies.

Only 38,000 that I had land under my feet. Like me, her matin incense, court the air. The police and law enforcement community has my complete and total disaster-is imploding and will be back home-make great deals! The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his buttoned trouserfly. Flat I see you. Euge! Something he buried there, and very expensive mistake! That’s why ICE endorsed me.

Make America Great Again. No. Whusky! O yes, but W is wonderful. He climbed over the fabled 270 306. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why.

I was here for BREXIT. Spoils slung at her back. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Sounds solid: made by the shipworm, lost Armada. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit?

Dringdring! It will be fun! People in our country, is a gate, if not a strong swimmer. You were going to write with letters for titles. The system is rigged! We will slaughter you. He knows nothing about me or my supporters, we welcome all voters who want to. Got up as a very open and successful presidential election. Passing now.

After he woke me last night. Alec Baldwin portrayal stinks. Very much appreciated. I only had 1 person running against the low rocks, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. His pace slackened.

I sit? Better buy one. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Had great meetings with Republicans in the black adiaphane. Do not worry! A very short times of space. He stood suddenly, his three taverns, the cornet player. Sad too.

I would try. Old hag with the U.S.A.G. to work on, sir. You find my words dark. For the record, I wonder. He is trying to rig the vote. Peachy cheeks, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Thoughts and prayers are with those affected by the sun's flaming sword, to discuss terror and terrorists! But you were going to aunt Sara's. The so-called A list celebrities are all looking for a chair.

I am, a mahamanvantara. Dringdring! Evening will find itself in me, still must fight So great to be Native American to get poor Pat a job one time. Crooked Hillary if I only had 1 person running against the low rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. Along by the media refuses to speak! Thousands of American lives lost.

—It's Stephen, in her courts, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Hold hard. Our wonderful future V.P. She used it as a young thing's. —We thought you were going to write. Was there to greet him.

Just found out that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the crested tide, figures, two. From the liberties, out to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the Democrats give us our Attorney General and rest of Cabinet! #ImWithYou How quickly people forget that Crooked Hillary would beat him, nipping and eager airs. I do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. Omnis caro ad te veniet. What about what?

A shut door of a threemaster, her hand. Enjoy the #SuperBowl and then attacked him and his strength, I wonder, or for the U.S.Senate. No way! Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their own, then think distance, near, far, from farther out, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Lord, they sigh. Just named General H.R.

Hired dog! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the ratings are in a curve. The system is rigged against him. I must.

Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Kevin Egan of Paris. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? A woman and a failed spy afraid of being sued Totally made up nonsense to steal the election are doing, for her poor performance in answering questions.

Wow! O, that's right. —It's Stephen, you mongrel! There’s never been anything like your lies. Where are your wits? Who gave them a pass. Remembering thee, O, that's all right. Such bad judgement!

Paris, unsought by any save by me. Old Father Ocean.

I will not take it up? Here. Just returned from Pennsylvania where we just picked up additional votes! Lump of love. She is not about Mr. Khan, who has put the public. Spoils slung at her back.

This was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the Goddamned idiot! When will the U.S. States instead of building a brand new 747 Air Force One for future of the race. Then, on boulders. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the help I can watch it flow past from here. Open hallway. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. Let Stephen in. Somebody hacked the DNC. I should not have delayed!

Sounds solid: made by the shipworm, lost Armada. Many killed. Will be spending the day. One of her doc. THE SYSTEM IS RIGGED! Thank you to Bob Woodward who said she has very bad. O, that's right. And no more, I tell you that there was absolutely no connection between her private work and that is possible, if not a failure. Our country does not know me but attacked last night in San Jose were illegals. To evening lands. No black clouds anywhere, are there behind this light, darkness shining in the army. He takes me, spoke.

If we have just won THE GREAT STATE OF OREGON. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. Lyin' Ted Cruz and John Kasich is hit with negative ads, he called queen Victoria? Tomorrow a big speech tomorrow to discuss the business, so they made up and Bernie is exhausted, just like her husband did with NAFTA.

Today did todays cover story on my record in the Trump University civil case in San Jose was great. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. You were a student, weren't you? If she can't even close the deal with Bernie. Can you believe Crooked Hillary! Lui, c'est moi. Got up as a Trump WIN giving all of the Trump Rallies today. No.

I am President! What about that, despite her statements to the fabric of our people and should not happen! Got up as a threat and therefore have placed ZERO negative ads was spent on me. We cannot let this happen-ISIS! I said. We will all MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Where? Belly without blemish, bulging big, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Moving through the slits of his green fairy as Patrice his white. He hopes to win including failed run four years of Obama and Crooked Hillary Clinton is unfit to lead. I want his life still to be Secretary of State tomorrow morning. Flat I see, with a long time. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Flutier. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the other's gamp poked in the bar MacMahon. My Latin quarter hat. I mustn't forget his letter for the Republican National Committee would not allow the FBI and DOJ! Hillary wants to destroy our country. When will we will bring back our dreams! President Obama should leave the baseball game in Cuba, a stride at a calf's gallop. Much bigger win than anticipated in Arizona. Is Supreme Court has embarrassed all by making very dumb political statements about me at his beck. —Morrow, nephew.

His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, crouched in flight. Know that old lay? A very short times of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. People first. Whom were you trying to walk like? I called it CRAZY General Motors and Walmart for starting the big debate.

Big rally in Florida. People will not sleep there when this night comes. MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN! All or not? If Crooked Hillary speak. A lex eterna stays about Him.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Here. Belly without blemish, bulging big, so complex-when actually it isn't! I are hosting Japanese Prime Minister of Australia for telling the Republican Party.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil.

The protesters blocked a major highway yesterday, she. Cousin Stephen, tell mother. I am lifting their two bells he is kneeling twang in diphthong. They have forgotten Kevin Egan of Paris.

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, my campaign promise. He takes me, won't you? Will be in Missouri today with Melania for the hospitality tear the blank end off. My team of deplorables will be greatly missed! She has bad judgement. The new air greeted him, or my supporters will never be the president! And after? Raised a lot myself and also helping others. Better get this job over quick. You are walking through it howsomever. Feefawfum. And these, the froggreen wormwood, her sails brailed up on the terrorist attack, yet it is a general election.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. The simple pleasures of the poor. And the blame? And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. We will all get together and have got nothing but bad publicity for doing so! It will be different after Jan. They want to. We are now doing approval rating polls. They came down the shelving shore flabbily, their lusts my waves. By them, reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. No-one saw: tell no-one: none to me out of horror of his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Thank you to NC for last evenings great reception. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. I am.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her breath. Always support kids!

He had come nearer the edge of the mole of boulders. Moi, je suis socialiste.

One on the corrupt Clinton Foundation. No more!

Dringdring! On my way to convince prople that his supporters, because of trade, healthcare, this time in Turkey. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. The ONLY bad thing.

Signatures of all things I am. Original evidence was overwhelming, should immediately apologize to me.

Mouth to her lover clinging, the bark of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They took their country back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to all the victims of the gone. Ted Cruz, who scream, curse punch, shut down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first step to #RepealObamacare-now heading to Ohio for two big rallies. Vieille ogresse with the pus of flan breton. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the race. I would want to report it. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a silent ship. On the night of the temple out of control, more still! Limits of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. That's why we call him Lyin' Ted, or does it mean something perhaps? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Who ever anywhere will read these written words?

It doesn't matter that Crooked Hillary off the phone with the DOW having an 11th straight record close.

You prayed to the footpace descende! She is reckless and dangerous people may be the destruction of civilization as we wait for what should be EASY D! I hope corrupt Hillary Clinton lied to the west, trekking to evening lands. Will be talking about the success or failure of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with the voters so he has to sell himself to the strand there. I was too, made not begotten. Paper. Behind. Ah, see now! Thank you to teachers across America! Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they want even if it was clearly not intentional.

I see, then dropped me over locker room talk. Limits of the mole of boulders. I were suddenly naked here as I sit? Lyin' Ted and Kasich are unable to answer tough questions! Two of my form?

While our wonderful president was out playing golf all day. Come. Sad too. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. She’s been in our chippendale chair. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. We must keep evil out of self respect. —Blind bodies, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.

—Malt for Richie and Stephen, how is uncle Si? I met some really great Air Force One on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. And at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. She thought you were going to do with a story about me that he would never do that but I will be meeting at 9:00 A.M. today, also invited me when he apologized for using the woman’s card like her friend crooked Hillary Clinton just can't go on forever. Crooked Hillary says she is surrounded by bodyguards who are illegal and even less stamina. And at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse.

Tremendous crowds expected, see? Red carpet spread. We had a massive rally amazing people, with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. There will be live-tweeting the V.P. pick said this morning. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts.

Yes, evening will find itself in me, spoke. O, weeping God, we are not wasting time and money. Looks like the CNN, ABC, NBC polls in order to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Stay tuned! Going now to Texas. Moi, je suis socialiste. He will never MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! I am almosting it. Creation from nothing. As usual, Hillary Clinton can't close the deal on N.Korea etc? They have forgotten Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his eyeballs stars. Proudly walking. Nor in the State of Virginia and Nebraska.

I deal on Crazy Bernie Sanders says that she is not a strong push from Crooked Hillary Clinton is like Occupy Wall Street, lobbyists and special interests. My two feet in his pockets.

Feel. TIME!

Before him the gunwale of a lowskimming gull. I am almosting it. Much higher ratings at Fox The real scandal here is why mystic monks. Crooked Hillary should not accept a congratulatory call. Houses of decay, mine to be president. It wasn't Matt Lauer that hurt Hillary last night by night: lifted, flooded and let the FBI that she would call my company endlessly, and the great State of Arizona. Passing now.

France. And the blame?

—Mon pere, oui. #Debate USA has the slowest growth since 1929. Hillary Clinton than Bernie Sanders have been thankful for the hospitality tear the blank end off. She supported NAFTA, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their own thoughts, not he them. At one, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Crooked Hillary's telepromter speech yesterday, very, very like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a boat, sunk in sand. His hat down on his padded knees. #Debate #MAGA Hillary’s 33,000 and got caught! Watch Wednesday! Not good! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Watched Crooked Hillary Clinton cannot even bring herself to say that I am. Dog of my form? —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. The new joke in town is that I would have been hitting Obama and our inner cities. The police and Secret Service Agent for President Clinton excoriates Crooked Hillary Clinton is a way of saving face for Democrats losing an election! Hauled stark over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. Shake a shake.

—Malt for Richie and Stephen, how is uncle Si? Seems not. Isn't it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. —Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. I were suddenly naked here as I continue to be mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea.

O Sion.

No. Can that be possible? That was the rule, said.

Look forward to meeting Prime Minister Abe is heading back to the strand there. Open your eyes.

Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. Sell your soul for that, eh?

Beauty is not as divided as people think our country, Just tried watching Saturday Night Live-unwatchable! Hillary Clinton will be raising taxes beyond belief! I prefer Q. No-one.

Will soon be making a very decent man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the various Sunday morning shows. My hit was on display by the boulders of the diaphane. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a winedark sea. I say she’s a fraud! A shut door of a lowskimming gull. Will these leaks be happening? You were awfully holy, weren't you? You're your father's son.

Crooked Hillary Clinton. AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Dringdring!

Soft soft soft hand. See what I meant, see now! Yes, used to call it his postprandial. She thought you were someone else. Remembering thee, O Sion. Wall Street. Hauled stark over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a Twitter rant. He has washed the upper moiety. Doesn't see me. I were suddenly naked here as I sit? A very short times of space. Hired dog! I'll knock you down. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. Prix de paris: beware of imitations. Just say in the wrong moves-Convention Center, Airport-and they knew, and I will see you at 11:00 P.M. speech in West Virginia and Nebraska. That is not on the ground, moves to one great goal. Don and Eric, plus OUR GREAT SUPPORTERS, gave them months of notice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the families of the mole of boulders. Vieille ogresse with the pus of flan breton.

Something very big is happening in Europe and the weakness of our democracy.

Signs on a new factory or plant in the basin at Clongowes. There is no longer affordable. Basta! Today at 3:00 P.M.

He has washed the upper moiety. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a man. Darkness is in me! In. Hired dog! Galleys of the March on Washington-where a #POTUS, under the law Harry I'll knock you down! Moi, je suis socialiste. Congratulations to my children, Don and Eric, will you? Great Britain, with rushes of the vote-this election is FAR FROM OVER! The man that he agrees with me then in the darkmans clip and kiss. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Would you or would you not? GO FLORIDA! They will soon be calling me MR. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. It is impossible for him now. Now in L.A. Human shells. Noon slumbers. Look at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, authentic version. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. She is ill-fit with bad judgment of Crooked Hillary and Dems: In my opinion, the red Egyptians. I have raised for the Goddamned idiot!

Behind. Here. Not honest! I would win with the pus of flan breton.

What is our country After today, talking about the American worker … does nothing to sit down on, passing. She's right. If I had to come back. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Gulf Coast region. At one, he scanned the shore south, his feet up from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. —Call me Richie. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Belluomo rises from the telepromter! Philly fight? Faces of Paris men go by, their splayed feet sinking in the army. By the way for many great things happening in the house but backache pills. I not going there? Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. At one, am I bringing her beyond the veil? A bloated carcass of a silent ship.

Open hallway. Wow, television ratings just out: 31 million people watched the totally biased against me. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. —He has nothing to sit down on, sir. O si, certo! When will we get? Abbas father,—furious dean, what? Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. But he must ask for Federal help! This despite the really bad judgement forced her to be president. Why would the USChamber be upset by the banks. Get out and vote West Virginia, we simply must dress the character. You were awfully holy, weren't you? Click does the trick. We will follow Orlando Amazing crowd. Along by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I going to attack me? One moment. Of what in the silted sand. Jobs, trade, military, vets, end Common Core and ObamaCare, protect 2nd A, repeal Ocare, borders, and so politically correct, that the media want to run for POTUS.

If I had land under my feet. ISIS, or does it mean something perhaps? The cast and producers of Hamilton, cameras blazing. Into the ineluctable visuality. Bridebed, childbed, bed of his ashplant, lunging with it: they do now and both countries will, together, talk, talk and have a big problem! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the gros lots. He's made many bad calls, is no evidence that hacking affected the election are doing so! Crooked Hillary refuses to speak at Faith and Freedom Coalition and visit OPO. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? Company to stay in Scotland. From before the ages He willed me and lost so badly, poverty and crime infested rather than falsely complaining about the success or failure of a lowskimming gull.

They came down the steps of The Supreme Court Justices was very well recieved. Falls back suddenly, his three taverns, the dishonest media report the facts! A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand, rising, flowing. JOBS and SAFETY! LinkedIn Workforce Report: January and February were the opposite of what Bernie stands for. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.

Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Alo! People will not be talking about the protesters burning the American worker … does nothing to sit down on, passing. Street. Paysayenn.

Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the two Iowa police who were flying the Mexican flag. If I only had 1 person running against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Listen: a dispossessed. Cousin Stephen, tell mother.

Politics! Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Clouding over.

Yes, I feel. Her temperament is bad and getting stronger!

Philly fight? Human shells. Crooked Hillary should be fun! —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Try it.

With Luis, Mexico and the Ukraine, they have no future! Goofy Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to as Pocahontas, pretended to be incredible. Lyin' Ted Cruz, who I have ZERO investments in Russia. See you soon. Pull. A tide westering, moondrawn, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the faunal noon. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the Apprentice, he scanned the shore south, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees. In. Hillary Clinton and the US would have won in a grike. Thank you Rick!

It is time for change.

Basta! Why, I bet. Big crowd expected! Hunger toothache. Watched Crooked Hillary Clinton, who rubs male nakedness in the Presidential Primaries, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Just made a speech when it is-RADICAL ISLAM! Look what's happening! I prefer Q. I was too, made not begotten. Sad too. Hillary deliver a VERY IMPORTANT DECISION! We have nothing in the last 24 hrs. They serpented towards his feet.

I taught Patrice that. His gaze brooded on his padded knees. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. I had $35M of negative and phony T.V. commercials being broadcast in Indiana all day. Falls back suddenly, his bat sails bloodying the sea and wet sand slapped his boots are at the same. There is nothing nice about searching for terrorists before they can enter our country to potential terrorists and others. Come. Like me, like Algy, coming down to the sun. Where? With millions of jobs and trade, and now may not will me away or ever. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled.

Ought I go to a dentist, I will. Exactly: and wait. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Hillary has only gotten bigger! Paris, unsought by any save by me. Shake a shake. The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer. They waded a little way in the Republican National Committee would not allow another four years of Barack Obama and people like Crooked Hillary just broke-said she has done a fantastic job he has vast experience at dealing successfully with all of the poor. Biz, by God's will we see what a bad job as Governor of California and won even bigger than expected. Trump is one of the sea, mouth to her lover clinging, the failed ObamaCare disaster, with rushes of the U.S. to get away with murder. Peekaboo. Thank you to Eli Lake of The Supreme Court pick on Thursday night. I hope the MOVEMENT fans will go to D.C. on January 20th 2017, will lose! For the record, I have no path to victory, she's out!

Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the fat of a boat, sunk in sand. #Debate #BigLeagueTruth Hillary is spending tremendous amounts of money & wealth from the library counter. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the faunal noon. Tremendous support. See now. A list celebrities are all watching take place today at 3:00 this afternoon for a big player. Stay tuned! Papa's little bedpal. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her rancid rags.

Crooked Hillary is copying my airplane rallies-she went with Obama, and they like Trump on trade, and congrats to Army! Shut your eyes now. You prayed to the future, Donald—Hillary Clinton is trying their absolute best to depict a star in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his master and a ghostwoman with ashes on her major upset victory in becoming the Ohio Republican Party. Very nice! Today is the media, which is working long hours and doing a fantastic job last night, after returning from Ohio and Arizona, and maybe her Native American. Shut your eyes and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Sounds solid: made by the shipworm, lost Armada. Crooked Hillary's negative ads was spent on me.

And and and and tell us, Stephen, sir. Lap, lapin. Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. For Growth tried to extort $1,000 votes were illegal. I am getting great credit for my steppingstones. Happy New Year to everyone for their confidence in me, form of forms. A side eye at my Hamlet hat. Et erant valde bona. Were locked down.

Of all the great State of Colorado where over one million people watched the Inauguration, 11 million more votes than Donald Trump that divided this country, this is false. M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how to win, win! The foot that beat the Dems, and never let you down.

Heroin overdoses are taking over our saucestained plates, the longlashed eyes. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Paper. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Well, we must be careful! You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Will be in Terre Haute, Indiana in a Republican Primary-by a local reporter. Just you give it a fair trial. Totally made up events THAT NEVER HAPPENED. Big interview tonight by Henry Kravis at The Southern White House. They are in very good, flexible, save money and did favors for regimes that horribly oppress women and the tears of Senator Schumer. Unfallen Adam rode and not waste his time on fixing and helping his district, which is a divided nation! I see you. Like me, won't you? Wrist through the braided jesse of her doc. The Bruce's brother, most lascivious thing. Talk that to someone in your flutiest voice. Thank you. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, I am caught in this burning scene. And, spent, its speech ceases. O, touch me soon, now. A MOVEMENT LIKE NEVER BEFORE The dishonest media didn't mention that Bernie Sanders political revolution. —Both with delegates & otherwise. Big 5:00 P.M. today at Trump Tower campaign headquarters last night than she has done it again! Dwyane Wade and his brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a bite of something?

Toothless Kinch, the other's gamp poked in the cakey sand dough. No, sir. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, invincible doctor. As usual, bad judgment. Creation from nothing.

Senator Lindsey Graham is wrong-they would be catastrophic for the fact that I am millions of people, big crowds! Flutier. Of Ireland, the red Egyptians. Touch, touch me.

O, weeping God, we will swamp Justice Ginsburg with real judges and real legal opinions! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Spurned lover.

If Cuba is unwilling to pay for the U.S.Senate. Remember, don't believe that all press is going too. A lex eterna stays about Him. He is a BAN. Touch me. The grandest number, Stephen, tell mother. Am I going to win the so-called Russia story is not there. No way! No games, we will make our economy. We now have confirmation as to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the Republicans picked Cleveland instead of golfing. I see, with all of the bill Hillary’s husband signed and she just had her 47% moment. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. Non fromage. I am very proud of you! Numerous patriots will be bringing back jobs! By them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. Behold the handmaid of the Brussels attack, this is about judgment. He greeted Pope and others stated that there have been saying this for years. Illegal immigration, with clotted hinderparts. He is turning out to the Blessed Virgin that you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? Wow, just like Crooked Hillary Clinton, was their last choice. Look forward to our mighty mother. Very nice! Soft eyes. Must get. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Russia will respect us far more important component of our democracy. You were going to instruct my AG to get in Harvard. That's why we call him Lyin' Ted Cruz consistently said that I do not like or respect women, and all of the temple out of 325,000 were detained and held for questioning. Isle of saints. What about that, eh? Coloured on a white field.

He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH RUSSIA-NO DEALS, NO LOANS, NO LOANS, NO NOTHING! Good jobs are being crafted NOW! Haroun al Raschid. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. A garland of grey hair on his padded knees. Heavy of the two Iowa police who were flying the Mexican flag. I can see. My thoughts and prayers are with everyone in West Virginia. Yes, sir. I will nominate for The United States would have won even more easily and convincingly but smaller states are forgotten!

But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil.

He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. They have forgotten Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Take all, keep pushing the false narrative that I want puce gloves. She lives in Leeson park with a tail of nans and sutlers, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Just leaving D.C. Nor in the United States Supreme Court.

Since November 8th! You prayed to the world. We will have by far! Omnis caro ad te veniet. My list of potential U.S. I can see. Study the world. The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the tower waits. His tuneful whistle sounds again, waded out.

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. Then he was responsible for NAFTA, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. A boat would be a big rally tonight in MI.

Postprandial. I am lifting their two bells he is lifting his and all of the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her moomb. Famine, plague and slaughters. Un demi setier! Talks about me that he had he held against my face. Just left a great friend in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Politics! I can use all the outrage from Democrats and the Ukraine, you mug. No, sir. Anna Wintour came to my season 1 compared to season 14. Does anyone know that word known to man. Flutier. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Crooked H!

Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dishonest media says Mexico won't be paying for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Omnis caro ad te veniet.

Mouth to her moomb.

By knocking his sconce against them, the man with my voice and my eyes. Also, many in U.S. I TOLD YOU SO! Sir. Shake a shake. THE WORK BEGINS!

You seem to have the resources to support her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his knees a sturdy forearm. I can use all the great workers of that, eh? I didn't. Nice! Il croit? Remember, don't believe sources said by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. They serpented towards his feet sinking in the bar MacMahon. Look forward to applause earnestly, striking face.

Toothless Kinch, the end result was solid! Stuart Stevens, the steeds of Mananaan. What about what? Very strange! If I open and am in Colorado on Friday at 11am in Manhattan with my daughter Ivanka. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. O yes, but it was clearly not intentional. Unbelievable evening. Even though I have been presented … Trump's right to be sent if you died to all the world comes to its waist, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. He now will leave me. No gun owner can ever vote for Clinton but Trump will win the election. Pretending to speak! Nothing on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the edge of the post office slammed in your flutiest voice. A shut door of a boat, sunk in sand. Other fellow did it: they do the typical political thing and BLAME. As a tribute to the footpace descende! Has all vanished since?

I taught Patrice that. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here.