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La Tortillería    |    http://latortilleria.com

"Located in Ourense, Spain, this place is anything but typical, it is a refreshing alternative for local walkers used to the traditional bar or restaurant. The architect Ruben D. Gil and his wife Gretta R. Valdés decided to spice up the rainy Galician city with an unusual spot to enjoy international cuisine and drinks in an atmosphere of light wood ceilings, adobe walls, dim lighting and steel furniture. The agency worked on the design of its visual identity, stationery materials, packaging for branded products, to go packaging, coasters, menus and tote bags. A custom made bottle of water on each table will welcome its guests in October 2014."

Originally founded in an old tortilla factory building, La Tortillería is a creative company with a passion for images and words with the exceptional ability of turning them into an exquisite reflection of an idea. We create, brand, design, publish and advertise blending creativity and functionality to grant each project a unique personality. We are creative problem solvers who begin with the end in mind either from scratch or from an outlined plan and make things happen come hell or high water.

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In the aftermath I consider how closely we had veered towards utter disaster. Without Diana’s sense of sacrifice and Bruce’s unshakable reasoning it might’ve turned out so very different. I am lucky to count them as friends.

A search of the survivors turned up no trace of the renegade Amazon. I may never know who it was that came so close to destroying all that I hold dear. I am comforted to know that I now have two comrades who would do anything to prevent that. Good things come in threes.

He has no doubt that Ra’s al Ghul will someday surface to trouble him again. It has happened before. And so, he continues the fight… for justice. But now for something else as well. A memory. Of sunlight and dewdrops. He has seen paradise.

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He bent over her. This much they had done together, before. This much he remembered. That she liked to be kissed in a line down her throat, and that if he followed the shape of her collarbone with his mouth she would cry out and dig her hands into his back. And if he had been terrified of what came next — not knowing what to do, or how to please her — it was washed away in the rush of her responsiveness: her soft cries as he ran his hands down her legs and kissed her chest and stomach.

“My Jem,” she whispered as he kissed her. “James Carstairs. Ke Jian Ming.”

No one had called him by his birth name in over half a century. It was as intimate as a touch.

— After the Bridge, Cassandra Clare

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