I listen to Italian singer of the last century. Poetry. Tomorrow back to the winter, or at least in the minds of Most of the people. And there is no better way to get it, do not listen to these melancholy melodies. Colossal mistake. Sale undeciphered a melancholy to me, everything for a moment. I can hardly hold back tears. Why? I think I can also control certain feelings, certain emotions. But apparently not. I lay long in bed, the body expands. And in a lightning are shot out of the house. I do not even have time to notice. Ipod, legs, and maybe some cigarettes hidden in the bottom of a pocket. In the deserted streets near my house I make an appointment. It 'Sunday, late afternoon. A complete family returns home after a dinner at the home of grandparents, or uncles. Who knows. It makes me feel home, but at the same time out of place. It takes me just to meet the world today seems to move. Precisely in the opposite direction to mine. Who did the calculations wrong? Those who leave and those who return, between the two parties? I am the only one, apparently, that opposes this current. They come to be so many that I can not even discern all their faces. Burn my eyes, maybe this, maybe not. Anyway, after walking. I have to let me go where I lead the legs. That does not stop. But in the end I know the way I'm going. Even if it seems random. The more I get closer to the center to meet more people. I try always to break away from the block which are all those people together, even if in my journey I run into a disproportionate amount of them anyway. Some stare at me until it overwhelms them. Others do not move to let me pass. The two things I normally would on your nerves, now I care very little. I am unable to stop the legs, I swear. I pass a house that reminds me of a past love. 'S great, and dreamed of going to live in two. I stop for just a second. To print the form in memory and return a few years ago. But there is no time, I have to keep walking. There is no reason why I should stop the perpetual motion that seem to have geared my legs. Like, it makes me feel better. The melancholy runs off with the sky, my head and that house. Leave space in my eyes, you look around in the streets, dragging their pediments of neoclassical buildings, the facades of Gothic churches, inns and restaurants remain closed. Porphyry seems to dissolve under my feet and I happen to find myself jumping up to shoot in the streets of my small town. The soil can move fast, but I tied my boots to a broken mast. And so maybe I decide to go home with a sun of the seven in the evening which is just before sunset. I've always said is the worst, what kills more, though it seems. It starts to hurt the hip but it's the last thing I could think of. I continue to move forward, and although I do not understand now, searching. dissolve if you'd ignore me. But what is really happening? I recover, but I continue to seek his face for all roads that pass. A sign, a color, music. I have the feeling that he is doing the same thing. I'll keep your dreams, and you take me into consideration, although it seems strange. I could not feel better. Really? Really. I'm almost home and the streets were deserted redone. But it is as if he were here. I just need to know that I am the guardian of her dreams. I will lay on a blanket in the grass, will extend his arms and say congratulations.
veiled sun in a sky that does not exist, impalpable. A thick blanket over me. Too thick. Perhaps because of my condition today. Last night, night excesses. As often happens in these times. I remember maybe half the things I've done. I drank, I smoked. This is certain. Is there anyone around me who wakes up with cuts or deadly blows and has no recollection of how he can get esserseli. Who moans turning over in his sleep on the cold marble floor. Who sets the ceiling above it, hoping to find the strength to rise. Around a house that I barely remember who he is. There had never been before and this morning I do not think even the same as last night. It 'a very large window that can to see the sky from the blinding light gray. It seems that the sun has forgotten to exist lately. It 's a more mass in the middle of all that white pearl. But no one ever sees it completely. I prefer it this way, although I must say that the light so clear, though not sharp, it kills me the same. E 'early, too soon, I think. But I have to go home. I'll pretend to be back yesterday early evening. I try to convince me to be able to recognize well the streets of my province in these conditions, and with little strength in my body that I still wash my face and go out. And in a very short-lived glory, I'm in the car. 'S cold, and nobody knows that I have taken last night. We are in September, would be technically still summer. But it is not. Not for nothing. I strive to keep our eyes open as I can, take the road that goes towards home. It 'a bypass, and there is hardly anyone around. Only trucks of all colors and lettering on the trailers in the strangest language in the world. I am certain that being the smallest, silly, and perhaps even useless in this Filamar of colors, albeit distorted by the unnatural light, which at this hour of the morning I feel infinite. Smell of petrol comes from outside, and enters by my window like a slap in the face with the air created by the fast motion of the car. I have indeed noticed that more than one hundred per hour, and perhaps not the healthiest choice to do given my conditions this morning. The road is long and colorless and it seems not to end up over the skyline. I turn on the radio to wake up, but little used. I still turn my head and after-effects are felt more than ever. It seems to me that the road that stands before me is parallel in all respects to the sky. Not only for the position but also for consistency. I seem to be compressed between two worlds colliding. Perhaps the only way for me to be able to save and hold on to the sun. But it hides a contract of indefinite duration. I try to fix it as long and as often as possible, but there's no way. Maybe ... I think it would be enough. Believe that it is released for real. Inside of me. The blanket then it is not too thick. Not turn off the sun if the shooting on ...
I listen to Italian singer of the last century. Poetry. Tomorrow back to the winter, or at least in the minds of Most of the people. And there is no better way to get it, do not listen to these melancholy melodies. Colossal mistake. Sale undeciphered a melancholy to me, everything for a moment. I can hardly hold back tears. Why? I think I can also control certain feelings, certain emotions. But apparently not. I lay long in bed, the body expands. And in a lightning are shot out of the house. I do not even have time to notice. Ipod, legs, and maybe some cigarettes hidden in the bottom of a pocket. In the deserted streets near my house I make an appointment. It 'Sunday, late afternoon. A complete family returns home after a dinner at the home of grandparents, or uncles. Who knows. It makes me feel home, but at the same time out of place. It takes me just to meet the world today seems to move. Precisely in the opposite direction to mine. Who did the calculations wrong? Those who leave and those who return, between the two parties? I am the only one, apparently, that opposes this current. They come to be so many that I can not even discern all their faces. Burn my eyes, maybe this, maybe not. Anyway, after walking. I have to let me go where I lead the legs. That does not stop. But in the end I know the way I'm going. Even if it seems random. The more I get closer to the center to meet more people. I try always to break away from the block which are all those people together, even if in my journey I run into a disproportionate amount of them anyway. Some stare at me until it overwhelms them. Others do not move to let me pass. The two things I normally would on your nerves, now I care very little. I am unable to stop the legs, I swear. I pass a house that reminds me of a past love. 'S great, and dreamed of going to live in two. I stop for just a second. To print the form in memory and return a few years ago. But there is no time, I have to keep walking. There is no reason why I should stop the perpetual motion that seem to have geared my legs. Like, it makes me feel better. The melancholy runs off with the sky, my head and that house. Leave space in my eyes, you look around in the streets, dragging their pediments of neoclassical buildings, the facades of Gothic churches, inns and restaurants remain closed. Porphyry seems to dissolve under my feet and I happen to find myself jumping up to shoot in the streets of my small town. The soil can move fast, but I tied my boots to a broken mast. And so maybe I decide to go home with a sun of the seven in the evening which is just before sunset. I've always said is the worst, what kills more, though it seems. It starts to hurt the hip but it's the last thing I could think of. I continue to move forward, and although I do not understand now, searching. dissolve if you'd ignore me. But what is really happening? I recover, but I continue to seek his face for all roads that pass. A sign, a color, music. I have the feeling that he is doing the same thing. I'll keep your dreams, and you take me into consideration, although it seems strange. I could not feel better. Really? Really. I'm almost home and the streets were deserted redone. But it is as if he were here. I just need to know that I am the guardian of her dreams. I will lay on a blanket in the grass, will extend his arms and say congratulations. 
