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    <title>unexpecteddays' Journals on Buzznet</title>
    <description><![CDATA[My name is Miguel Angel Pasalodos, I was born in july 13, 1964 in Elgoibar, Guipúzcoa, Spain.  At present I live in Guadalajara, Spain.
 
PHOTOGRAPHER

 If  you are interested in my work for a magazine, newspaper, art gallery, publicity or any another thing, please, feel free to contact me. 

                     map_sss@hotmail.com

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&quot;Un hombre se propone la tarea de dibujar el mundo. A lo largo de los años puebla un espacio con imágenes de provincias, de reinos, de montañas,  de bahías, de naves, de islas, de peces, de habitaciones, de instrumentos, de astros, de caballos y de personas. Poco antes de morir, descubre que ese paciente laberinto de líneas traza la imagen de su cara&quot;
                                                    
                                                        Jorge Luis Borges (El Hacedor, Epílogo)

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   &quot;  A man sets himself the task of drawing the world. As the years pass, he fills the empty space with images of provinces and kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, houses, instruments, stars, horses, and people. Just before he dies he realizes that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his own face.&quot; 
                                                     
                                                       Jorge Luis Borges (The Maker, Epilogue)

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 &quot; It is time to explain myself. Let us stand up. 

  What is known I strip away; 
  I launch all men and women forward with me into THE
  UNKNOWN.
 

  The clock indicates the moment, but what does eter- 
   nity indicate?
 

  We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and
   summers;
 
  There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. 

  Births have brought us richness and variety, 
  And other births will bring us richness and variety. 

  I do not call one greater and one smaller; 
  That which fills its period and place is equal to any. 

  Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my
   brother, my sister?
 
  I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous
  upon me;
 
 All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with
  lamentation;
 
 (What have I to do with lamentation?) 

  I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an en- 
  closer of things to be.
 

  My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; 
  On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches be- 
   tween the steps;
 
   All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. 

  Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me; 
  Afar down I see the huge first Nothing -- I know I was
  even there;
 
  I waited unseen and always, and slept through the leth- 
  argic mist,
 
 And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid
 carbon.
 

  Long I was hugg'd close -- long and long. 

  Immense have been the preparations for me, 
  Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. &quot;
                          
 (Walt Whitman &quot;Song of Myself&quot;)]]></description>
    <link>http://unexpecteddays.buzznet.com/user/journal/</link>
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