I look at old things, mostly pictures.
impact not think anything.
Then, as the guns in a book by Helen,
out one after another all the emotions,
brought scents,
or better
down ' idea of \u200b\u200bodors.
Nothing shiny back,
of course,
but the feeling that everything was better so,
fucking
that yes.
Even in winter.
Tomorrow I will have thirty years.
few compared to those that I feel;
so I'm worried as a warm beer:
disappoint those who think of?
Only an alcoholic would drink you!
Or not?
Brahahahahahahah ...!?
I had a phone ringing,
I had a silent phone,
now as if I had a phone:
are full of cigarettes and alcohol.
The skull is little left
only flakes of talc:
remember the joy of a finger
did when the teams.
large number of people tried to love me:
a red
athlete,
a password,
a zarra,
a friend,
a Filipino
a nun, a nurse
of Egoji,
obesity,
Goddess,
a doctor with breast cancer,
a splattered with black fingernails,
a flower,
a virgin
a Tuscan London
a Tamil,
one that has rocketed in the skull scooter,
anorexic Brianza
a core inexperienced
a shy in social services, a librarian
red hair,
a colleague in a bar, a fashion
Svegon,
a dancing,
a Transparent Sweet Cheese (click!)
one that should not do it (for her),
a red lips, a
Fish fascinating
a scout for beaver, a
Albacete
a Roma,
a small creature,
...
and who do not remember.
To be able to say at peace with myself,
as did the Pellico now forced
remain desolate and aging with this refrain:
The man who most often was to hate life, those are my friend My. [...] Who is happy, who's busy with many interests and future man see him distressed and reserved, with a smile or imposes an obligation to hide her sadness. [...] For every day that ends, I bless God that frees me from the presence of each one to be with me alone with my sadness. (Milan, 17 November 1818)
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