I'll swallow from this city that I think only made of colored sheets and socks thrown on the ground to fill the corners. These foods are used to take me to get back and then - this know this - you throw up all at once. It makes no sense. Makes absolutely no sense.
I remember the 'inadequacy that comes from years on the bench watching over the chair not to understand others and be understood and yet you, who you knew who you were, now you know better. The blankets at night fall to the ground and in the morning regularly impede the path of awakening.
Now there is a serenity that seemed impossible to reach, a fucking balance. A balance ever. I do not know how to say. Never. Even at seventeen, when I had to take three buses to get from him and looked at my watch and I should not otherwise be late to return home then you hear that story. And no one knew already that I love, and it was a secret and I did not like. And I wish they had been the most natural thing in the world love one another among the trees of a public park with voyeurs who raped you with his eyes and beat the saw, there, behind us. And we did not care. But mine did not see or maybe yes. I had always return, and return on time, with the sea of \u200b\u200bSferracavallo that whispered to me 'tomorrow' every single day and filled my mouth with salt water and dirty.
was dark and there were fishermen. There were lots of presents and a girl of seven who occasionally came in the room by mistake and it always surprised at the sight of his brother naked. Michela. This I remember. The sugar in milk, the guitar and tickets written in pencil. There were train journeys that lasted two or three weeks and nice friends. I was there waiting at home and at the airport and there was love the world's strongest. Something really naive, elementary, laughable. And above all anxious to go home, and return forever.
These eyes 'spirdati' you throw them on me and you present them.
The dream of dying in bed with their bodies entwined and pasted off the light in and out, pull down the shutters to stop time and the feeling it would be nice if that was your parents' house was ours alone. Li
I left your parents die, and you would have done it too. I would have kept alive the cat John, and only for the name. I eliminated all sources of noise, anything could have devolved and keep you from noticing what I was beautiful. And above all would be really nice to get married just to see your tiny eyes in the morning upon waking. Then it would have been nice. And for you too.
You were seventeen years old and wanted a ska band and play the guitar and I loved watching the people go to the English garden and imagine their lives, planned in minute detail. At one point you forgot to design our own and I've thrown away like you do with a fly.
I had never spoken. I had never even tried to remember. I was forcibly removed everything. Deleted because it was too painful. Now I'm almost free.
Now I remember, and I think half of my trauma resulting from the phone you said that you just 'do not love you more '. Then I have not seen him since.
It took nine years to understand and remember. That abandonment
syndrome that ruins young bodies and brains and makes them unfit for life and ready to spirits. These eyes
gift them to you. I have a couple spare.
balance of fruit flavors memory unfolds know that Snow White's coffin inside the crystal.
Only now I understood the meaning of the scene of Un Chien Andalou .
