shmunk monk, by dj lidl juice

shmunk monk

by dj lidl juice

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	1.	racks came in i was still in the tonka 13:37	lyrics
	Many times in my life I have done injustice to the man I loved. Such injustice is like a sin against of the Holy Spirit: she is not forgiven in this world or the next. It is indelible, unforgettable. Sometimes he rests long years, as if she had been extinguished in her heart, lost, drowned in a restless life. Suddenly, in the middle of a happy hour, or at night, when you wake up frightened from a bad dream, a heavy memory falls into your soul, it hurts and burns with so much force, as if sin had only been committed at that moment. Any other memory is easy to erase. The black stain is on heart and stays forever. I would like to lie to myself: “It wasn't like that! Only your restless thought made it out of the translucent shadow night! It was a trifle, a daily routine, like hundreds and thousands of them from morning till night! ” The consolation is false; and man feels alone and with bitterness that it has been lied to. Sin is a sin if committed once or a thousand times if it is everyday or unknown. The heart is not a penal code to distinguish between transgression and crime, between murder and murder. The heart knows that "the reptile kills with the gaze, with the sword the hero"; and better it would drive the sword away from the view. Nor is it the heart of the Catechism to distinguish between the small and the head sins to distinguish between them by word and outward signs. The heart is a just and infallible judge. Judge and condemn the sinner by a hidden, barely conscious gesture, by a momentary glance that no one has noticed, by unspoken, barely written thoughts; even after a step, after knocking on a door, after sipping tea. Just a little sins are written in the catechism and yet they are not major. If the heart were a confessor - it would be long and terrible was a confession! Forgiveness is a sin that can be said with a word, erased by penance. Heavy and too heavy, to the last hours is bleeding sin, which remained only in the heart as a memory without word and without form. Only a man to himself he confesses when he stares into the night and the blanket on his chest is heavier than a stone. “I did not steal, I did not kill, I did not commit adultery; my soul is pure! ” - ivan cankar ( proto yeat )