Is this the case with eCommerce Basis

Do as all children who not only, when they are a bit ‘lifted, play and jump with some of their song well-rhythmic, but when they are still poppanti, and make the forest, with measure and cadence stutter between themselves and their rows of pa pa and ma ma.

And in this it is right because it is nature. You are still in the presence of the new world, and make use of the new word to mean it. The world is born for everyone born in the world. And in this it is the mystery of your essence and your function. You are very old, or child! And very old is the world that you see again! It is primitive the rhythm (not this or that, but the rhythm in general) with which you, in a certain way, you rock and dance! How foolish are those who want to rebel or one or the other of these two needs, which seem to clash with each other: see again and see from ancient, and say what has never said and say as always said and it will be said! And they rebel, the ones with clever gestures of pedants: This metaphor is not in … (and here is the name of a more recent poet by hand); the others with pugnacious attitudes of innovators: This is not very unheard of and inaudible! Those are in general old, that every authority believes in old age; and these, young people who imagine every strength in their youth; these are more boring than those, because a pride is always impertinent, and the other is never without sadness, and because if one no longer understands, by senile deafness, the witty chatter of the child, the others do not they still intend, for that cackling they do, miserably proud, around their young self. And, indeed, young people are not, that they are, if they were, they would not notice. Being an old man, one realizes yes, sometimes, and then he dresses, dyes himself, shouts to a young man. Is this the case with you, old ladies?

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It is inside us a little boy who not only shudders, as Cebes Tebano believed, which first discovered him, but still tears and his own tears. When our age is still tender, he confuses his voice with ours, and of the two children who ruffle and contend with each other, and, together always, they fear they hope they enjoy crying, one feels a single throb, a scream and a yelping only . But then we grow up, and he remains small; we light a new desire in the eyes, and he fixes his old serene marvel in it: we thicken and rustle the voice, and he always makes his tinnacle ring like a bell, however. Whose secretive tinkling we do not hear distinguished in the juvenile age perhaps as well as in the more mature, because in that busy to argue and plead the cause of our life, the less we pay attention to that corner of soul whence it resounds. And also, he, the invisible child, gets pitied by the young man more than beside the man made and the old man, who is more dissimilar to himself than he sees what he is. The young man rarely and rarely stays with the boy, who disdains his conversation, like someone who is ashamed of a past too recent. But the rested man loves to talk to him and hear the chatter and answer him tone and grave; and the harmony of those voices is very sweet to hear, like a nightingale trilling at a stream that murmurs.

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