Not overly impressed with Euro 2008

The day portugal advanced into the euro 2008 championship, began yesterday in Geneva switzerland. Today, I am reminiscing about an important night I had after the portuguese national team won their first match of the opening day qualifier for european football supremacy. The game wore on leaving much little to be expected, the first goal came only in the second half by a solid effort from pepe. Not much to celebrate this early on in the tournament for any of the teams, let us remind our better intuitive behaviors, that we inform sometimes fate might be an enemy of the will we share before things actually happen for a reason. We've involved our senses to be trained in a manner that act toward conditional responses, or for that matter trivial yet uncompromising. Perhaps it is an illusion we think of, as if fantasy or creative instinct after the fact we performed this action with such and such delight, the truth never really revealed itself until then, that place in time we thought of it in a personal affliction, where scenarios emerge as if prophets were telling us something told in the room the same room from which we breath as if ghosts were whispering its conclusion from one tainted lie to the unfortunate recipient that tolerates such incongruencies. But I digress, the mind is a wandering eye, that at times like these such as a split decision due to lack of discretion or a paradox that unassuming yet unexpected becomes the latter of what interference might cause the brain to commit it into memory. However, such memories have a place. And this place, at this time exists to such a large degree the extent from which is real it has not identified concretely, but discreetly intimate with detail. Details that one cannot dial for over the telephone lines, where wires communicate in an intricate balance of methods and interception. But I digress, if the portuguese haven't already won euro 2008, there is inspiring alternatives that bring about change.

However, happiness is not a performance. It is a karma. At this moment in memory, perhaps the truth is a threat to such correspondence. Though throughout history, some grave battles haven't materialized, they've been struck, as if sunk into an abyss of temperamental thoughtful memory, without the actual truth being exhibited into a focus. There must be some form of memory without repeating it, due to repetition, or a class conscious that collects artifact after artifact as if some Deity mummified for lack of depth during civilization. History has a funny way of revealing itself. There is no demonstration for history or that favors the intellect, but we've arrived at a conclusion precisely due to convention or otherwise individual abnormalities.

We've made very true challenges that decipher fiction from the actual truth in times gone by, as children in corn fields of advancing the contenders from the pretenders. Through and through the time of a childhood, into memory, and back from the memory that very well may never end so to become a child born from stars in the heaven above which the earth looks as if to say it.