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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