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perfectly stacked on a shelf in the middle of my father's library, the few books I have written since 2003. a sort of paternal pride post it. I saw them and I smile inside, not only because of pride, but because tempus fugit.
post it in the form of books seems to be important and in some ways it is, but is really nothing, a kind of Cerottini on a wound that only in very rare cases we are given to fill.
is that "time offender" in writing and foscolo together all the swarms of care with me so he yearns. what today seems to have a (s) enso, is actually a grain of sand in the face dunes of eternity.
time there is no escape and all the trinkets, all physical evidence to which we cling to worthless.
nothing escapes oblivion, everything, almost imperceptibly, suddenly, it collapses.
so will for my books, for disks that I tried with so much love in Novegro, for the few vessels of honor that I bought over the years.
ammuffirà paper, the hardcover will be bubbles and foil Squaderno, the discs have become unheard and not listen to them more.
player come on, do not be sad.
you should feel sad if I thought of last, but only fools believe in their hearts that the world with their dileguerà departure, therefore - the logic of the speech - is very remote possibility that a fool may be saddened by thoughts of finis terrae .
I'm also a bit 'stupid and think that everything will end, that things which I would not be sbriciolerannno slays me.
we put in what I do care, passion, dedication and that is enough. I do not want to drag on, I just want to feel life. I do not want to be remembered, but I remember having lived.
just between us, a little 'I think that is a pain in heaven and / or anywhere else you can not even bring a carry-on baggage.
would put us in Dante's Divine Comedy, the Iliad and the Odyssey, no holy books so I'll be surrounded by the sacred. maybe we slip pinocchio, or lord of the rings when I'll be bored from time to serenity, happiness and joy. I would put in their hand baggage in the smiles I received what I asked, all perfectly folded towels smell like Damini.

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Candido ... but not a secret voltaire


Password: candor. Only the white broken bones hypocrisy, to the calculation, the short range of many of our thoughts and actions. The candor
I met him few times in my life. I think it's a gift, a little 'how to have faith, or spit far, Caccone do with regularity, using up to two tears of toilet paper. The
Candido is like Mr. Magoo, moves between crumbling walls, holes and traps, keeping them in a world of virgin pigliaedainculo.
I do not have, at times even smacks of naivete, which is the first release of innocence, a kind of innocence full of bugs, of troyans, malware, snots of information.
The other day I was told that I see the good in people. I let this pass riflemozione and I've thought about it. But yeah, come on, a bit 'is true, otherwise I would not have chosen' I'm working from Sigfrid Von Nibelunghen (see> Sturmtruppen) that I chose. In the beta version of candor, that the ingenuity, is implemented a certain coglioneria that would be a shame to keep all itself. The good I see it, but I also see the bad. On bad I will not because I'm not afraid. The good the water with a certain frequency, it requires care and free education. The bad
not fear because of the fact that usually the cunning, the malice, the aftertaste of certain words are like the chain that is attached to the dog kennel of stupidity.
candidate is an inexperienced, and often is a very clever man, a winner. Let's say that in Aesop's fable would be part of grape and not that of the fox. The fool is below and makes the fox and the naive think you fucked. You hear the lion lupus Stabat superior.
One thing is certain: it has miscalculated the slope of the stream, because the white is subtracted to look into the eyes becoming torn. There will reflect your image, that of the fox that stands out the jump and can not do it. In your mirrored his own, that of one who does not even need to be naive, because it is a step forward, which is not the success, money, to appear, but that's what being without the hassle of be said to live without seeing you live.

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as usual I was correcting a stack of tasks ungrammatical, while my father and mother were in the room. I heard him speak thick, clear voice, as the reader something. I get up, I approach port and extend the ear.
dad is reading an article about my mother. she is lying in bed, turns a little 'head and is wrapped in a blanket.
observe it: he is not following the thread, I do not think even the interest. be lulled by the sound of words.
believe that if it were a shopping list absorbed nothing would change in the expression of her face.
it's easy to say as a child. I do not know, I'm not sure.
there is no flying zones within us that often unconsciously use when we listen to music or U.S. models uk. we do not understand the words, at least not all epppure we fall in love that piece. Sometimes years pass before we give you the time to look for a translation network.
this kind of emotion is like a primary color, one of those - blue, yellow or red - which was specially mixed to create other colors, all other colors.
much of what we do, we think of that takes on a comforting, is a sort of inseparable pacifier, or, to Winnicott, a transitional object.
dispels the shadows, frustrates the dark, gives us a fleeting feeling of not being alone, that someone will give us a hand, we hold the hand, we watched as we crossed the ford.
the magic of everyday life floats and does not disperse, the sound console, the gloom surrounding the meaning of the words vanishes in front of euphony. nothing more, nothing less.
the bottom rests a weary melancholy, due to the time that flies in slow motion.

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I designed my life in the yard


I designed my life, but there was
the sheet.
a piece I have drawn on the bench for
never stop to ask,
on a cobalt blue sky,
to endless wonder.

in a piece I put my name secret,
another
the rustle of the petals that are closed to accommodate the night.

in the smaller one I put all the happiness and
the biggest pain in metronome.

I put the pencil,
but lacked the design of my heart.
then
I asked you to draw on your paper.

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in the courtyard during the intermission of the four assigned to my students, I thought about what he had just finished saying and reflect on the effort that you learn. Fatigue is a beautiful, fruitful, one of the few worth living. understand is to open a breach in the wall, open a window, peering over.
think they will do well at the end of the words spoken and written. many, many will be forgotten, others will be held in the form of notes, notes that Ingall will end up in some attic. other, even worse, become our crumpled leit-motiv, our (and increasingly obsolete inadequate) polar stars
books will be sold to buy new ones, only a few will be preserved. the faces of the prof, mentors, or a little more will end up caught in the memory.
and big ideas will be bartered for a mediocre job, a paycheck that will shake their wings and never allow you to fly above the filth of the world. Why this need the money: to escape the vulgarity, embrace oblivion, forget the fatigue.
what I say is right? has a value of what I send? is right or wrong? who knows ..
not even know me, I think is right.
values \u200b\u200bthat are rooted in my feeling of freedom, the idea of \u200b\u200bfreedom. that which compares with the limit, which moves an inch a day in the line of our horizons.
not know if it's just because they do not even know if it makes sense.
more I get, the more I think it makes sense to have those few actions and thoughts that are scrambling to find a way, that have encysted, that just claim.
'll never have the courage to say. "Look, I do not know whether it is right, because maybe what I am saying does not make sense. We who attribute it, and never vice versa."
make love makes sense, yes. but not for the act itself, but for the small and unexpected good fortune that brings Supplementary. the pleasure is short, just enough not to think about life but to live it.
also drink, eat, wash, sit in the sun, read a good book are "good thing", except that while you think.
always even when you think it would be better to suspend the thought, you think about thinking, it is thought in mind and not outside. is thought to exhaustion, you think how to say, when to say it, say why.
is like the hum of our refrigerator never ends. perhaps best serve to keep the mud and diamonds placed in our souls?
do not know, just do not know. I would gloss
from Socrates: I know not only do not know, but I also know that all the knowledge that I do not ever turn off a star, nor move a grain of sand.

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is essential is invisible to the eye


a good word. here's what we expect. a word that pierces the cloud cover, which dispel the rain.
maybe a lie, because the good words often lie to themselves.
a word you already know Christmas, thrown there by chance, for free. because what is free is what matters.
to school I have two friends, one is called Rashidul and the other Paul.
paul is a guy down for fifteen years, slightly older and rash that when he learned that I had passed the contest was like a light bulb lit up with happiness. felt that I would be for the entire school year in its class.
Paul I and now I wanted to know when we meet in the corridors "five" never fails.
they know what is free and do not need to read the chapter XXI of the Little Prince to know that "the essential is invisible to the eye."
hours it rains, I enjoy this time of freedom and then I start to correct a quintal of tasks. I would be lying to say that it's okay, the same if I told you is wrong.
goes ... evergreen in an attempt to put order in my closet existence.
when I was younger I did not love the rain, but today, yes. The same applies to the haze hovering low over the city when you wake up. I like over the years more and more things and moments I remember when my cat by analogy made pasta on my legs, purring curled before.
there is also a wonderful poem by Ungaretti: Christmas. good in these days the month of November, where the gray color has the upper hand on the rusty early autumn.
now looked everywhere and I copy and paste.
hello hello ...



I do not want to dive into a ball

road

I'm so tired

shoulders

Let
well as a resting
what


in a corner and forgotten


Here
not
feels the heat more


I'm good with
The four somersaults

smoke of the hearth


Naples, December 26, 1916

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academic


well and unfortunately share the same fate: no one knows where to put the ACCA.
the ACCA, we were told is not a letter, a bit 'like the white color is not as contains them all.
alas, have my elderly parents at home is not a life experience, but it is a test initiation.
dragged the steps, slow movements, the incipient deafness, the memory fades facts, events, emotions. illness, disease, pills, frugal meals, the idiosyncrasies, the existential posture incorrect, the correct ones. flows emotional color, the fullness of being, the soul that overflows memories.
the starry sky of youth, the misty sky of old age. hear sneezing, coughing because of the jump, urine, feces, diapers, diapers, snacks, high cholesterol, the mitral valve, the defibrillator, ham and mozzarella.
short, old age, death of the hall, waiting room crowded with memories of recent games room.
the world of children and the old join hands, in both cases looking for something. The first look for something that does not yet have a name, the latter something which no longer recall the name.
in half there is life, and all open bets, primarily those on ourselves.
you can get away from everything: from a love gone by sailors have one, from a deal wrong, from a friendship misplaced, stolen from a home-made from a robbery in a house.
you can also choose not to be happy, or they no longer want to work hard to be. may be inauthentic and / or earn our trembling palm after palm authenticity.
can even reach the consciousness trying not to resolve the contradictions more, but fuck them one by one, without exception.
as usual, was right in Woody Allen's Deconstructing Harry when he put into the mouth of a dead man restored to life than being alive is to be happy.

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E 'better ...


is better to take a questioner or an applicant?
is better to be on the right or on the side of truth?
is better to leave or enter?
is the best refreshing shower or a hot bath?
is the best crib or Christmas tree?
is better to have the strength to believe or dare to doubt?
is better to think for themselves or follow the dictates of the majority?
is the best ass clean or dirty and pant pant dirty ass clean?
is better to observe or be observed?
is better to add or subtract?
is better to close a form in ikki or nikki?
is better in many ways a period broken or tied together by the comma?
is the best sea, beach and the beach umbrella or the mountains, the cows ruminants and ruddy mountain?
the pizza is better than soft or crispy?
Homer or Dante is better?
I was better before or after you first after you and I?
is better to finish second and had to be done or arrive early and do everything possible to stay that way?
is better to write this kind of post, or should be omitted?

probably should defer

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Tata Andrea


Since Dad necessarily cause more moved in my house not only I reset my private life but within a week I became a true Miss Doubtfire. Wash, mop, cook, cuddle him and stuffs.
Note: the inheritance I received years ago, now I do it for the spirit of service, because the love is free.
The sly old man is now sitting on the couch with lots of plaiddino on the legs and watching "rebel land" Cinzia Th Torrini. It will be because of that th or older due to the fact that you stoned. To you will judge.
I could not have "land rebel nepppure if King Kong had made me understand very clearly that he sodomized me. Rather than bend to Berlusconi soul surf the net, at least cherish the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving something to complain. But no, I also like tens of millions of others I toy with the conviction to be master of my choices, opinions about the world. All nonsense: in fact, not in substance different from my father, because I have no possibility to verify the info that I get. And even when you think the original idea is why I think we seem to think the world for the first time, thousands of years while he devises real truth lies liars to tell us! But
not want to talk about this.
If anything, the terrible old man who listens to the film in the headphones, which I have to pray after eating and eats like a pig, which I find towels on board the tank because he does not know where things are, because, not so deep down, are a fan of the order that helps me to calm my manic neurosis, which in turn hide the fear of empty (blank horrors) the fear of life, fear of happiness, fear of tooth decay, the fear of fear, fear of strangers with candy attached, the fear of bureaucracy, fear halitosis, fear of alliterazioni (such as the fear of clearing, or the fear of the plain).
At my old man I want a lot of good. Without his wife for a few weeks it seems to me perfectly embodies the Mondaini syndrome, namely the diffuse form of union that little or no osmotic has to do with love but with much need for each other. But then what, or rather what remains of the whole 'I love? The sex of a man wrinkled and warty? Sex and mangy carvernoso a woman? At eighty eros is to have your ass to lift the paper the next day.
The terrible old man now moves, it charms, and confuses me that the wheel turns and the last tooth that fits into the ring of time is slightly larger than the first tooth that sticks to pupone who crapped in a diaper.
has 82 years, the popes, but now for me is like he had 8.2. When Zebedee breaks the 820 and instead it shows you put into all the expertise accumulated over nearly a dozen centuries.
The heart of my daddy is moving in sync and charge with Cybele, the Great Mother, in this case his wife.
sometimes ask me trivial things, such as birds that ply our seas ( gulls, he was not the word!) And I wonder who is this man who until a few years ago was put on alert the world. Now he gets excited watching the unspeakable crap on TV and is thoughtful and quiet when he sees me tired. Maybe he likes the
Torrini th because that is a prelude to the end. And the old feeling that the live hour by hour, day after day. I'm just tired, I miss aikido, I miss my being flaneur between the words of books, but here and now I I enjoy my old terrible.

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I AM, I was, I'll be 'Tired


Thursday, fifth hour, the second top: I have to explain your grammar and I do not want. Within the classroom and I find my only Chinese student read avidly intent on his Italian-Chinese vocabulary, much like a Bedouin at the source. I ask him: "you have a grammar book?" . I replied that he did not and that if he will pay a political partner. "Open it", ask him politely. "You tell me if there is Chinese in the subjunctive?". Apparently there is, and there is also our all time in the indicative and conditional.
"We shoot to go to the blackboard and write I'm in your language?". And he dutifully does. does the same with the past and future.
On the polished surface of the board are gathering signs of his tongue. Then I ask the same to my Romanian student, then a student and a Latvian Polish. On the blackboard
I am, I am, I was and I was in many languages. also in English and English. I have a Nigerian student who does not know his language because my grandmother spoke to her in English, the language of the colonizers.
I would write to my father, Albanian, who speaks the archaic in the villages of our south, but I do not know a word. So just say you dua mire, which means I love you . And do not even remember Latin, but I can not forget: nemo propheta at home.
I felt like the Enlightenment of the eighteenth century, Voltaire in a petit Cinisello Balsamo. I also feel like strangers within the walls of the house. I felt happy because I saw the smiling eyes of my boys.
One of them, Jennifer J by the end of the lesson, passing by like the beating of wings told me quietly, Prof, today's grammar lesson I liked it a mess.
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Tired of moving car doing slalom between licensed fools.
Tired of seeing teenagers swarm in the corridors pimples, all the same.
Tired of coming home with six bags of groceries.
Tired of being tired.
Tired of waking up bored already.
Tired of not being able to ever get bored. Tired
del'infelicità.
Tired of looking for happiness.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of packing and unpacking.
Tired of my fears.
Tired of my certainties.
Tired of the sun when it shines.
Tired of the rain when it pours. Tired
piercing sound of ambulances.
Tired of not remembering what I want to stop.
Tired of remembering what I want to let go. Tired of the ridiculous
variously declined. Tired of smiles
hairpieces. Tired of being
as scaldasonno beghelli.
Tired of intelligent show.
Tired of my distraction.
Tired of the usual rounds. Tired
you understand everything there was to understand.
Tired of being too polite.
Tired of the phone.
Tired of collections.
Tired of old sweaters.
Tired of not feeling the throbbing life.
tired of hearing the heavy breathing. Tired of making lists
movements.
Tired of not finding someone to convince me.
Tired of the same music.
Tired of those who believe to be original, but it's just an idiot.
Tired of separate waste to buy them back in the form of plastic. Tired of
laugh out of time. Tired
to laugh covered and aligned.
Tired of wanting what I can not have.
Tired of not wanting what I have.
Tired of this post.

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tears


Tears are transparent, if you dip the pen does not write anything.
The tears are salty, you weep in streams and to find ways to keep them and then obtaining salt and pasta.
tears ruining makeup, glasses or streak, so I'm very elegant.
Tears mixed with sobs are losing aplomb. Better than silent tears because the eye doc never gives.
The most beautiful plant in the history of cinema: Glenn Close, who cries in the shower the loss of his dearest friend, in "The Big Chill."
The cathartic cry I want to do: When my novel will be published by Einaudi.
Crying ineradicable: the child and the old me take you inside.
If you cry while you drive, the road out of focus. If you cry while waiting, usually no one sees you.
If you cry at the end maybe it's wasted effort. If you cry at the beginning of course you're afraid.
If you think it is unmanly to cry when you cry your tears will flood the world.
If you think I feel good cry is almost certain that you do not know what is good.
never cried in front of your accountant, before the keeper of your stable. Do not you ever cry at a store hardware because it is full of men like you.
never cried about yourself, but always within yourself, some prepositions sometimes make the difference.
can cry in front of the mirror, he will tell you if you say or if it is real pain.
can cry in front of a slice of Sacher, the best sauce are the hot tear.
If you do not cry for a long time, get the facts or put a finger in the eye.
If you do not cry for yesterday, not look for other excuses to cry. Some days you can even smile.
If you laugh and cry at the same time, write me or call me I want to see the face of a wise man.

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Alsatian cake


swear, really, until a few days ago did not know what a cake Alsatian. never had the pleasure, no one has ever presented. she lived her life and I mine, unaware of each other.
then suddenly I saw her eying the shelves of the super low, sheathed in a complete nude look e. .. I let myself go. This happens in relations status nascendi , without exception. I carefully placed in the cart with other products and sad not to give the eye, but happy in his heart, since I beat the cashier in the ticket.
dell'alsaziana face was that of one who knows is bound to take a dip in the hot milk, or pain that goes into a tea.
almost almost, I said to myself, a chance tea hot. in these early days of rain is a little joy ritual that asks to be renewed.
I cut, and perhaps at that moment I should not imagine that we were meant to share cable oropharyngeal and gastric juices. was spongy, not at all crispy, but the apples were not such small marsh mallows indigestible.
cup of tea in the Alsatian has ballooned, the exact opposite of what happens to the slices of veal stuffed with estrogen. I have seen press against the walls of ceramic thin, as if to find a vanishing point, a crack.
I swallowed with difficulty and the imagined grasping hands with sugar spiraling along the ridges of my trachea.
then, more nothing, no noise. in the pool over the stomach, next to the dear remains of apricot brioche in the morning, in company of trofie swallowed with pesto for lunch. I led a burp hoping REACHED meanders intestinal and soon was transformed into Caccone by peristaltic movement.
I sat on the sofa, legs crossed with the pillow on my stomach and I heard a knock.
not the door, but his navel. was the Alsatian who came introflex where my life is tied to nine months to that of my August parent, was looking for a glimmer of light.
I inhaled and exhaled, I tried to maintain control, although he felt that the Alsatian had meanwhile threatened in viscera.
I guzzle a glass of Braulio and then one of Averna, I pulled out the effervescent Brioschi make sure it was not timed in the twentieth century.
I hear a belch so powerful that Mr. Anthony, guardian of our illibatissimo old apartment building, intercom and asked if he had posted the sign to begin renovations.
put down his opposition anxious or if you prefer, his anxiety upset, I went back on the couch and everything turned white, milky, I lost the time-space coordinates and I felt transported to an alternate dimension to our own.
a world of soft plastic, in which all are well, even those who are sick. a world like a very long spot, without further interruptions, in which everything is so fake it seems real because there are no alternatives. on a throne of illegitimate children of King silvio I granbiscotto Ravagnati, and, at his side, behind a veil of organza, a slice of cake anabolizzata Alsatian instead of two candy eyes, two breasts instead of the Val di Non Meline and instead of a huge bus gnao gnao bus.

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keep family


remember years ago that he had read a novel by Andrea De Carlo, "utopian", in which the mechanisms that regulate family relationships are compared to the gears of a refrigerator, or hot to cold.
day trip in the car to find my alassio.
a premise must be made: perhaps they are too sensitive to the dynamic feel like the nib of a seismograph, the earthquakes, but it is also true that forcing all'omertà the brain in some cases impossible.
intolerance fart in the air, opposing views of the world turn a remake of the iceberg and the Titanic, idiosyncrasies celebrate their festivals with polenta and sausage, processions of neurosis and wave candles imploring St. Sigmund.
result: I imagined in "who has seen it?".
conjectures, suppositions that overlap, testimonies from friends who say they recited in a voice broken by emotion: "we expected, in recent times it seemed so strange ..."
and then the mother: "My child, come back, the mother prepares you for the lasagna." already, the problem is that my mom does not remember how to do the dough in the oven.
and sister: "Come back, come on, you've done parsing, logical, now that you have to finish the season".
last but not least, the father: "Come back, my son back. You have to go on sale to retire the football DVD I ordered."
and his wife, pleading: "Come back, please, love, again: I miss the goat."
and then the Guardian: "I had always assumed it was half peasant, now I know: it disappeared without even saying hello."
and colleagues: "wherever you remember: the first quarter provides max two oral and two written tests. the pentamestre, three and three. send them to Address e-mail of our institution: info@istitutocaccapupù.it.
and then my dear master, "returns, doshu, you have to take the exam the first kyu. At least you're trying menuchah katadori? "
and the voice of my close friend:" Come back, we end up laughing about the world. "
and then the voice of my mentor," comes back, come on, we must understand where the hell are 'footsteps ste leading to eternal nothingness. "
but yes I'll be back! fact, in hindsight, I have yet to disappear ...

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sorry


sorry, I have nothing to say and I do not even feel an obligation to myself chichessia or to say something intelligent or sympathetic. Indeed I do not feel even smarter and much less sympathetic.
maybe I'm quiet, yes indeed, I'm quiet and I enjoy the silence that emanates from the smoking rubble, or imperceptible little noise of beating wings of a butterfly.
I claim the right not to have anything to say.
also want to add that sometimes it's even nice to have nothing to say because when you're feeling better shut up the voices that come from the world.
only the world is never quiet, but I can be quiet and I like that.
in fact, I am not writing in silence but the silence, which is almost a speech, but quietly, in a faint voice.
space / time mental granted to those who have nothing to say not even grow the the most common flowers, weeds grow, those medicines. the sky to those who have nothing to say is cloudless and the wind does not pull. the sky is still, sedated by the silence that the wadding and shine.
the land of those who have nothing to say is bleak, but do not expect the miracle of rain. is happy with her "brullitudine" to ward off boredom and giggles.
sometimes have nothing to say it's beautiful. is like taking home a library but do not have books.
have nothing to say the word means not even pay for our pain, it means slamming the door in the face of joy.
stand still for a moment, measured in a matter of seconds, inhale and exhale and then go back path to tread some new or used, in the middle of the leaves sprayed from the romantic light of this early fall.

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What is study history?



this question I was asked by my third class in a vocational school.
history teaches us not only to "avoid repeating the mistakes of the past," rumor, however, contradicted by history itself over several millennia, but also allows us to understand that past, present and future are inextricably linked.
benefits from the present to which the study of events and cultures returns volumes and curves, shadows, whose perception is lacking to those who live life on the here and now flattened.

our present is this thing here, no thicker than a sheet of white paper.
to live this kind of this is the only viable solution annihilate, lost in the white of the paper, to be guided solely by the pleasure principle, from bulimia consumerism that devours us.
instead the story, or rather the study of history, but ... reading a good book, indeed .. listening to good music remind us that our life to be aware of itself needs to return to this depth, to feed him.

when you're tired you crash on the couch, this is permissible, but nothing and no one forbids you to read a good book, going to the theater, to invite a few friends at home truth with which not only reject the trite talk with boredom, but with speeches that let you do caving's existence.
instead, which is struggling ... the other is basically like the instruction manual of your mobile: quick guide to the best and play, for immediate use, fast, not postponed.

why should I read? reading is tiring, it's a big break, the books sometimes seem like the sea of \u200b\u200bthe Strait of Messina, agitated by opposing currents, sometimes unfathomable, scary as the deep water illuminated by the moon.
cesaroni better, better don matteo, leaving a background that in addition to being flat is also awkward, vulgar, indigestible.
therefore, In short, do not need to study history. Undock not the couch, does not break chains, does not teach the servant and the slave power that the fight against them drugged, that they crashed on the sofas of shopping centers, with the glassy eye and the carriage filled with every good things exhibitor catalog .

I said that studying history is not used to anything, but basically do not even need to make love and a thousand other things knowing that we do not make us happy no more, nor even better.
need food, cover the pubenda, drink in moderation but yes, sleep. do not think that we will face much more.

not a day goes by, does not pass even commercials! Remember that there how nice it is to be free, but freedom, true to my knowledge goes only through awareness, through the study of reality, through the "you esti" of the Greeks.
'what', "" how to "add ... how the reality in which I live?
short, from, the world is divided into the reader more or less correct hour on the dial and in those not satisfied and do everything possible to open the case and carefully monitor, discipline, passion, the wheels that fit the ' one another.

some even have that clock also removed and placed with a certain method to better understand the rollers. These gentlemen came on with nothing enriching sense and the scope of their thinking. they have the right to declare oneself a nihilist, if they are won on the field. I'm sorry for those who do nothing lives in it as the only starting point and should not be over, not moving, because it is too tiring.

en passant remember that most probably in the house of Mr. Vanzina not find the film of Mr. Vanzina panettone, but Wim Wenders, Antonioni and Fellini.
Vanzina not read Mr. Moccia, but Proust Dostoevskji. does not listen to absolute zero, but the jupiter symphony by Mozart or Miles Davis' Kind of Blue.

the absolute zero them listen to "absolute zero".

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feel that the heart did full. The skin as smooth as a peach. Fishing smooth skin. A large strawberry. A smile on a subway car. Keep your body when you're adhering to your uke tenkan. A white sheet. Vowels. The clean sheets. A hot shower when it's cold outside. The hands of a woman. The hollow of the kidneys. The fuzz on tennis balls. A vase Barovier Toso. The white apple. The first apple. A cannon cream. The foam of a cappuccino. The down-filled pillows. The galaxies seen with Hubble. Galaxies seen by Hubble. A toothless smile. The cotton balls. The red Bordeaux. Deconstructing Harry by Woody Allen. The triplets chained Dante. Jackson Pollock. The look of the great Raphael's Sistine Madonna. Writing pastel Marai. The life that she writes to you, but you have changed address. The Ray Ban drop. A drop down my spine. The taste of love. The windows fogged by train. The only patient in November. The geometric flights of swallows. Sex springs. The first thirty seconds of Where the Streets have no name. The bowed head of Bill Evans on piano. The plumes of smoke. The days of salary. The high fever that loosens the limbs. The deep voice of Van. The shrill voice of Pan. Hermes stealing Apollo's cows. The statues of the prophets on the door of the church of Moissac. The colors come out when the tubes. The lips. The light in her eyes. Goemon and Fujiko. The filing of Uncle Scrooge. The loneliness of the Silver Surfer. The Ducati Monster, Red. Cherries in Vignola. Borsalino hats. The Moleskine. 0.5 The pencil tip. A few real friends. The dough in the oven. Hands in his pockets. The sand under my feet when it stops raining. The telephone tokens. Sms. The parable of Sky. The blackboards and chalk. The breast. Cosine. The tatami. The snow on your tongue. The village festivals. The surfinia on the balconies of the houses in the mountains. Not being able to keep pace. The dryness of the mouth. Smoking is harmful to the skin. Cool water. Wiligelmo in Modena. The French cheeses. The primer and pallottolieri. Villemot. The dark glaze. The smell of Venetian street. Crumbs and sparrows. I Baci pocket and coffee. The confetti. I like and why. The velvet sofas. The cars of the firefighters. The fire in the fireplace. Soul fireplace. Continue
you.

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this morning I read in the gazette of milanolandia a story that has gripped my heart.
our beloved Mr. Scrinzerfuler was the victim of an accident.
the reporter, that Hugh Padulo (pag32, Milanolandia News) describes what happened.

"this morning, around 06:00 am on staff at the disposal of waste has found the body of middle-aged man buried under a pile of Gorm.
the accident was due to an outbreak occurred in the adjacent factory Toys and games 'Cemin &' Cemetti . gormiti landed on the body of the unaware have opened flaneur and have eaten making it almost unrecognizable. An autopsy will tell investigators that have opened investigation at that hour of death. Mr. Scrinzerfuler leaves:
1. a pair of turtles
2. orchid Phalenopsis
3. Collection 1982-1983
4 sandwiches. a movable bridge> premolar and molar internal coated with gold "

I refrain from crying because Scrinzerfuler would not have liked, and instead, I laugh, because Scrinzerfuler would have preferred that.

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raining and I guess Signor Scrinzerfuler with his elbows resting on the baluster cold some anonymous building on the outskirts of Milan.
will be up while counting the needles of water fall from above, while being swept by the first cold wind. Behind him feel that he left the television on low volume, as if to deny the loneliness, as if to contradict his silence.
Then imagine a closeup on the face of Scrinzerfuler, the bushy eyebrows, slightly hooked nose, upper lip narrow, on the lower fleshy and pointed chin. And then zooming in on the eye to frame the gold flakes confused between the green and soft brown of her eyes.
And once zoomed over those straws, within which I seem to see filaments, contrails, dust and darkness.
With the last I find myself contemplating the universe and then from there, as if by magic, a vague solar system.
I know him! It 's our.
And then the Earth, our city, a building of its periphery and a little man leaning against the marble balustrade: Mr. Scrinzerfuler, in all its poetical stralunatezza.
If you have never read "The Book of" by F. Pessoa and I liked this little operation, then do it.
I smile because I know that now you're looking out the window.

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autumn leaves a baby at home and I sprintzerfuler


Scrinzerfuler today showed up in less obvious ways: a telegram!
my friend is really mad, but I'm beginning to wish him a good special.
beamed because he had been achieved (radiant and achieved a superb ... alliterazione) around dawn by the news of the birth of a new creature of shredders at home Spritzenfuler.

a parenthesis here is imposed: the sprintzerfuler are neighbors of scrinzerfuler a couple of generations and trusted voices that narrate some grass for their gardens adjacent intertwine and even give rise to soft daisies that neither one nor the others claim they would know since sprung up that ideal boundary that separates two properties.
that this continues.
sprintzerfuler have changed the last three generations ago and it is wrong to define the forerunner, since three generations is just crazy would have dared so much.
Mr. scrinzerfuler is the first of his generation, a new short, compared to sprintzerfuler.

info I asked my friend to a philologist who pointed out to me that in the name of sprintzerfuler is clearly visible next to the t zeta, which is devoid of the surname scrinzerfuler. the reason is due to the fact that a few generations ago the letters available to be used in the change of surname anagrammatist were more.
fuler refers to neutral, to fool the Anglo-Saxon tradition, the code book or Scrin means freedom, but freedom is written in full and scrinzini Scrinzi book is written. that language, needless to say, is the Scrinzi.
sorry for the off-piste, but I want to be a witness of the life of Mr. scrinzerfuler meticulous.
however, the contents of the telegram said

sprintzerfuler born baby in the house! fuler all the world celebrate the event by cooking in sweet baked a sponge cake and then cospargela icing sugar and giggling happily.
even today I am happy because I got to see the baby in a videoconference that as Scrin fuler prefix and suffix, greeted me by shaking her hand and fearing his first kotescrinzgaeshi.
only those who freely in and nice to each other out: we fuler know this.
all the best to the baby, which is but one of three in a row.

say a telegram ... joyful, just fuler in style, capable of great excess. a day in the well, the next day with the wings stolen from a rainbow.
au revoir
Doshu

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Scrinzerfuler


Gent.mo Mr. Scrinzerfuler,
thank you for the respect that is showing me posting on my little blog. she asks me and presses with its "Tell me, tell me," between the final and the ironic.
what can I say!
little thing, I do not have much to say: they are superficial, yes.
I like what is reflected on the surface. For example, today I went to take my parents to the sea and 550 km-made machine that is holding back the glare of the sun on the water at the end of the tunnel, the sky more clear, a kiss of alassio eaten in one bite and a coffee thick.
as you can see is just the surface. do not care to look me in my neighborhood or depths or crevasses: I do not.
I do not even have a story to tell, because the story now for me is all these small keys I'm pressing. understand me?
there is a before, let alone after, there is here and now, here and now. This is the area, wants nothing more, does not aspire to more.
know for me what is happiness? not wanting to be elsewhere.
I also want to be anything but me impose not want to be elsewhere.
in my (humble) opinion, his life is much tastier than mine.
you, Scrinzerfuler, it gives me the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing a bay that is home to rugged handles that you turn into stories. Please
the discovery to continue. not be ashamed to be a scrinzerfuler in a world of Mr. Red. goes without saying that I do root for her, though still not allowed me to focus on his vision of the world.
scrinzerfuler perhaps because a vision has not. has many world views, one inside the other, like so many colorful matryoshkas, like so many rainbows that go hand in hand, as in the dance world of Matisse.
enough, I'll stop here. rather she I tell her "now" a significant moment, a fragment of life that allows me to think about before falling asleep.
we love only the things and people to whom we think before I sleep, the rest ends up in humid or plastics.
smile at her. His
Doshu

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I

you opened your hearts.
I can not hold the wind.
Yet my hair shine
It thrills me beat.

I WANT A LIFE WITHOUT HEART.

The heart is like the sun. Without them no life?

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One says to me And I felt h fucking knew it! The the my sixth sense is never wrong ...

But what's the point?

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Know thyself, said the guy.

It 'just a life?

That's weird. I crossed my mind a memory of Mark because of Ramni. One spring afternoon that we were there on my bed talking and I spoke of the importance he attached to the knowledge of himself. I was surprised surprised the accurate vivisection that every day was Mark himself. I remember that I asked naively How it works? I can not even figure out whether I prefer the sweet and savory!

I have not yet decided whether to choose sweet or salty, but more and more I know I only have a great desire to Peroni.

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The Unification of Italy?
Has there ever been?
Some went further.
Some say that the extermination of the Jews, never happened.
Unit of Italy, there has never been. We are a people
individualistic us. Always have been. And there's mo Bossi who wants federalism. And Berlusconi, who controls everything himself. My computer is so old it does not recognize the name of Berlusconi. It is underlined in red. Satisfaction!


It was a quiet day. Pleasant. They also managed to maintain two conversations longer than the average with my mother. Satisfaction! They are relatively quiet? I do not know ...
My problem is that it does not touch on the issues. It 's very easy and pleasant to climb into the car to go home to press the accelerator down a bottle of wine whoring ... that to stop, talk, discuss, explain, groped to make himself understood, shake, cry, despair.
Then maybe you think we're well and shit ... but you throw your heart down with a sip of Peroni.

least every day I think a lot of those people. I'm not a good friend, for example. Disappear. Rejecting calls. I go without if and but without. Do not phone. Do not send postcards. But I think all of them. What need is there to talk?
Eh! I always

those nails into the same head. Like everyone else. Those two or three thoughts that you carry for a lifetime. Take you? Already can not do it anymore. In this kind of thing, however, one can not escape. Neither do I. You can also press the accelerator. Unless the head does not cut it and leave you to remember your dog, you can not escape thoughts of those damn worms!

and does not contribute to the Unity of Italy.

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Morning! Skip

Laila under the window that you soak the rays of the sun.
The machine that gives us that inside centrifugation
Billo swallowing hair from the inside
And what am I to get down.
And yet out, wanting. I

me calm down.
In my little activity on radio-accumulation activities.

And when I least expected
strange reactions. Violent
in their child.
It's not good.

must never be well.

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Dear John,
I stuck to my desk to the side wall of your two letters. Old. I have fished out yesterday and I re-read. I've re-read and I understand. Not that I had not understood the first ... but I have seemed clearer. Since I do not know how to fuck contact-find I write here.
hug.

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R E E



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There are spaces will inevitably be met.

distances to be maintained, inevitably.

That swineherd, if not!

Why?