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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