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<?xml-stylesheet type="text/xsl" media="screen" href="/~d/styles/atom10full.xsl"?><?xml-stylesheet type="text/css" media="screen" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~d/styles/itemcontent.css"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:openSearch="http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0" gd:etag="W/&quot;AkUMQH04fCp7ImA9WhZQFE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548</id><updated>2011-04-21T20:24:41.334-03:00</updated><category term="Contos" /><category term="Nash says" /><category term="Amor" /><category term="Adolescencia" /><category term="Nostalgicos" /><category term="Textos livres" /><category term="Místicos" /><category term="Dialogos" /><title>Cronicas do Nash</title><subtitle type="html">Contos, Cronicas, Histórias, Devaneios, Cotidiano e textos esparsos. Tudo com uma visão ácida da sociedade.</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/" /><author><name>Nash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11904250382502750386</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SDCoHEVsgpI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rNyhlPRp6i4/S220/Untitled-1.jpg" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>8</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/cronicasdonash" /><feedburner:info xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0" uri="cronicasdonash" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><link rel="license" type="text/html" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/" /><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DE4CQ3k6cCp7ImA9WxRREEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548.post-2636315006338922282</id><published>2008-09-22T00:53:00.004-03:00</published><updated>2008-09-22T01:16:02.718-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-09-22T01:16:02.718-03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Contos" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Místicos" /><title>Caleidoscópio</title><content type="html">(Nota do editor: Atendendo à pedidos, eu voltei! Espero que entendam que estou fora de forma. De qualquer sorte, aproveitem o conto.)

E ele estava lá novamente, à espera da sua visita. Por tempos tornou-se a única alegria da sua monótona vida. As janelas eram sempre aquelas velhas janelas, as flores que traziam murchavam e caíam sob seus olhos. A Luz do Sol que penetrava pelo basculante do banheiro jogava no chão um caleidoscópio muito bonito de se ver, mas ele só via quando deixavam a porta aberta.

Mas voltemos à alegria da doce visita, e à...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/feeds/2636315006338922282/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/09/caleidoscpio.html#comment-form" title="6 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/2636315006338922282?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/2636315006338922282?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/09/caleidoscpio.html" title="Caleidoscópio" /><author><name>Nash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11904250382502750386</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SDCoHEVsgpI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rNyhlPRp6i4/S220/Untitled-1.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SNcbrmZjfFI/AAAAAAAAAug/acAjzxVDZLQ/s72-c/blue+eyes.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkEASH49fip7ImA9WxdWEk8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548.post-8946506387836505096</id><published>2008-07-05T00:25:00.004-03:00</published><updated>2008-07-05T00:30:49.066-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-07-05T00:30:49.066-03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Contos" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Nostalgicos" /><title>A esperança de um velho</title><content type="html">85 anos, Alzheimer. 

Naquela época em que os esportes ainda eram possíveis, quando ele era jovem e forte, quando não se pensava na morte, quando as garotas suspiravam pelos músculos, quando tomar um simples banho sozinho era coisa rotineira.

Hoje, está sentado aqui neste asilo imundo, cercado de doença, velhice e morte. Ele jamais aceitou aquilo, jamais imaginara que os filhos que criara com tanto carinho o internariam naquele lugar insólito. Sozinho.

Agora eles eram profissionais qualificados, com suas próprias famílias e sonhos. Ele era...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/feeds/8946506387836505096/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/07/esperana-de-um-velho.html#comment-form" title="7 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/8946506387836505096?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/8946506387836505096?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/07/esperana-de-um-velho.html" title="A esperança de um velho" /><author><name>Nash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11904250382502750386</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SDCoHEVsgpI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rNyhlPRp6i4/S220/Untitled-1.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0EGQXoyfCp7ImA9WxdXGEo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548.post-5909703430222157126</id><published>2008-06-30T23:32:00.000-03:00</published><updated>2008-06-30T23:33:40.494-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-06-30T23:33:40.494-03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Contos" /><title>Bolinhos de queijo</title><content type="html">Eram 4 da tarde, e por algum milagre divino, Dr. Nilmar, seu patrão, liberou-a mais cedo do trabalho, afinal de contas, já são 7 anos como fiel secretária, ela merecia aquela pequena folga de 2 horas a menos no trabalho. Luiza estava feliz, tinha um casamento sólido de 4 anos, e um emprego estável, já pensava até mesmo em engravidar. Se sentia preparada para isso. Enquanto caminhava do ponto de ônibus para a sua casa, pensava alto:

– Humm, hoje vou aproveitar e fazer aqueles bolinhos de queijo que o Felipe tanto gosta!

Entrando de súbito na...&lt;br/&gt;
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Os leitores mais fiéis devem ter percebido que demorei um pouco pra postar desta vez. Acontece que eu só coloco aqui algo que realmente me agrade, ou que venha trazer o mínimo de entretenimento e satisfação a quem lê. Se...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/feeds/7432503148601713433/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/06/entrelinhas.html#comment-form" title="3 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/7432503148601713433?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/7432503148601713433?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/06/entrelinhas.html" title="Entrelinhas" /><author><name>Nash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11904250382502750386</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SDCoHEVsgpI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rNyhlPRp6i4/S220/Untitled-1.jpg" /></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkQEQnc8cSp7ImA9WxdXFEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548.post-8497641583043910640</id><published>2008-06-26T00:11:00.002-03:00</published><updated>2008-06-26T00:18:23.979-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-06-26T00:18:23.979-03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Textos livres" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Nostalgicos" /><title>Saudades</title><content type="html">Odeio tardes de domingo. Aquelas que precedem a maldita segunda-feira.

Odeio também as segundas-feiras. A semana começa, o trabalho começa, os estudos começam, o stress começa (ele chegou a terminar?).

Ainda odeio as tardes de domingo. Aquelas que lembram a minha infância, dos tempos em que não haviam preocupações na minha cabeça. Dos tempos em que não haviam contas à pagar, filhos para sustentar, crises em relacionamentos, chefes rabugentos, dores de cabeça, medos, inseguranças...Aquelas tardes de domingo... quando eu brincava em estado...&lt;br/&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/feeds/8497641583043910640/comments/default" title="Postar comentários" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/06/saudades.html#comment-form" title="9 Comentários" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/8497641583043910640?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4635542551796968548/posts/default/8497641583043910640?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://cronicasdonash.blogspot.com/2008/06/saudades.html" title="Saudades" /><author><name>Nash</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/11904250382502750386</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SDCoHEVsgpI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rNyhlPRp6i4/S220/Untitled-1.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_G1lQDi3kQVI/SGMKLAUzw9I/AAAAAAAAAfE/BlbiSK5bqjs/s72-c/pordosol.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>9</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0AMSHw8fCp7ImA9WxdXE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4635542551796968548.post-3110425584009848911</id><published>2008-06-24T12:55:00.003-03:00</published><updated>2008-06-24T13:43:09.274-03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-06-24T13:43:09.274-03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Contos" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Dialogos" /><title>Contato imediato</title><content type="html">(em uma rua deserta de uma grande cidade, um jovem estudante que passa vê uma luz ofuscante, e sem seguida, algo se materializa na sua frente...)                 
 "T" = Terráqueo

E.T: Saudações.
Terráqueo: Wow, um E.T?!

E.T: Vim em paz terráqueo. Gostaria de conhecer seus costumes e o seu povo.
T: Rapaz, eu até mostraria, mas o ônibus da meia noite já passou no ponto... e se a gente ficar lá esperando corre o risco de ser assaltado.

E.T: Assaltado?
T: É cara, alguém coloca uma arma na sua cara e toma seu dinheiro.

E.T: Mas... eu não tenho...&lt;br/&gt;
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Estudava pouco, começou a trabalhar duro já pensando no seu futuro com Ela. Fazia planos e planos. Pela primeira vez já pensava em se casar. Sempre se gabava em rodas de amigos sobre...&lt;br/&gt;
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