Mario Salieri Best Of

Of Gods and Men, Cristian Mungiu

the Atlas Mountains in Algeria, the year 1966 (probably the disappearance of my friend Nashira, and his family in Constantine), a community of French monks in a monastery Cistercian decide to stay faithful to their karma, despite all advised to leave the country. Despite its integration into the local community, Muslim, are taken hostage by the ruling party (last week they had terrorists, more tolerant of the monks, which at any given time there is empathy) to change the release of soldiers held by French and are killed. There is a judicial proceeding. Our Christmas is not just what we have experienced so far but what is to come, says the abbot, and the psalms and all writing along these lines: the pastor does not run away leaving the flock to danger, etc. I felt wonderful and I, and wonder, that my mobile received no call that I made from the dentist from 9 am, all together and all about waiting. Early-morning after the orgy, which could have been a roll, led me to the meadow where Telefónica presented the book playtime, child labor, and later, I still want to say, the University celebrated the delivery of Adonais in Hotel opposite the peel, could not cope. After the monkey slept and rested and even slurred, write an article and go to the dentist, just to see what fate had prevented my speech implant. They told me all morning had hoped em and calling. I shocked. But there is no doubt that this time I had given fatalism one morning event the peel fat. And with my teeth and worried about my mobile, if not working and I had missed calls urgently needed, XII Jubilee Awards, I could not eat a grape or because of my brand new teeth. Disgusted with what he saw with chasing Capape trays, I left. This morning I confirm that my phone is perfect, it's better for me. I go to the bank to increase the fund implant and where Zúñiga Readers Circle presents stories: rusty coins shine, I read the first and the truth. Maeterlinck winds that fail to materialize and closing falso de lo que yo llamo sin desarrollar. Tenían Doctor Zivago en el escaparate: ¡me lo perdí! Yolanda y Pilar cotorreaban sin parar de comer como dos marujas, los de logística miraban por la cortina el tendido, la voz de Luis Mateo me llegaba de atrás, Lois y la de cine querían llevar a Zúñiga a su molino sin que viniera a cuento, Joan Tarrida me echaba miradas pícaras.