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Nic Zuraw
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"It's better to travel alone than with a fool. But what may two fools do?"
"It's better to travel alone than with a fool. But what may two fools do?"

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Revenge!
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Ah! I wonder if I can build one in my shed now?

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Great to finally have some decent home style Turkish food
Originally shared by ****
Very nice food here...

What is the opposite of sleeping, waking?

If waking comes from sleeping and sleeping comes from waking and that the processes between them are going to sleep and waking up.

What about life and death?

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This week Irish peloton reported on a disclosure on the Irish radio show; Off the Ball from Scottish journalist Graham Hunter who is a big FC Barcelona fan and comments on Spanish football for the program. Hunter commented on the fitness of Xavi and that he was being injected with Human Growth Hormones by German Dr. Hans-Wilhelm Müller-Wohlfahrt of Bayern Munich. Its suggested that Müller-Wohlfahrt is the Dr. Fuentes of football and that he has previously injected goats blood into sprinter Usain Bolt and English footballers Michael Own and Steven Gerrard, he also treated: Michael Jordan, Boris Becker, Andy Murray, Cristiano Ronaldo, the Brazilian Ronaldo, Jürgen Klinsmann, Jose-Maria Olazabal, Maurice Greene, Michael Ballack, Michael Owen, Steven Gerrard, Rio Ferdinand, Linford Christie, Kelly Holmes, Diego Maradona, Katarina Witt... Luciano Pavarotti and Bono!

If a cyclist had been suspected and reported on having used HGH there would be an outcry, with all the bad press that cycling gets.

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Coffee and cycling, there is a connection!
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Her hair was as black and as shocking as burning tyres;
And her pastel-hued eyes that once surveyed the dawn,
Could set the world aglow;
And her skin as white as alabaster and soft like the new found snow.
Her voice, oh, her voice was as cool and clear as ice,
Probing and touching and reaching like wanting fingers.

But she left...
She had left him with a life like a ruined photograph print,
One half burned to ashes and the other half torn,
And containing only the single, voiceless image,
Of a pair of red shoes moving in the winter’s breeze.

Outside,
The moths spin crazily across the slate-dark road;
In the midnight a puddle was raped by the wind.
He plunges into the obscene night, taking the backroads,
His hands naked against the starry cold.

The leafless trees accosts his soul,
And the icy wind shears the skin from his body,
And all the while;
She looks down at him, there all alone;
Her body limp and swaying from her hanging tree.

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