Weissounet Voir le profil de Weissounet
Posté le 30 avril 2011 à 00:13:56 Avertir un administrateur
Magdaa est déjà prise.

Oui et je m'en tape complet.

Wait Je sais pas ... J'espère que tu as raison

Julien > Ah... Désolé de pas avoir pu t'aider alors...

Plops Dans le cas contraire, les gens seraient vraiment bizarres je trouve...

Moi je suis calé depuis bientôt 3 mois ha ha.

Wait Pourtant j'en connais plein ...

Pierrot Déjà.
BG !

Plops Bah, disons qu'il y en a pleins qui font ça, mais il y en a pleins qui pensent comme nous aussi.

Julien > L'aider en quoi, au fait ?

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN

Wait Ok ben ça me rassure

Bah ça passe vite Kévin.

On parlait sur Skype en Février et c'était tout récent.

Julien.R ?

Weissounet Voir le profil de Weissounet
Posté le 30 avril 2011 à 00:22:28 Avertir un administrateur
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN

Gné ?

Pierrot Ouais c'est vrai, ça faisait presque un mois.

Plops Tant mieux.

Je croyais que tu pouvais pas garder les secrets ?

De la copine de Pierre.

Encore 5 points avant le rang "OR"

Je rame

T'étais pas parti au fait Lucas ?

Février > Mai = 3 mois.

Kévin.

Tu le connais IRL ?

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.