The room has become a bazaar. There are clothes strewn all over shoes to fill each tile never read books on my desk things gifts ever delivered in mid-read magazines, dusty and smelly blankets tangled mountains of cigarette butts in the ashtray and the smell of entire generations who have spent their lives in here , generations that evaporate from this dirty wallpaper.
I do not want at all to adjust, to clean up. I'm not going to even get out of bed.
I have a feeling that even if I did not change their order a cock in my head. I would stay still too confusing.
The same confusion in the room and head. A confusion that today we can not solve.
I think I lost.
I lost because you told me you do not know what I could do 'grow up' and instead I've told you. I know what you can do. You you've got a chance. And do not think it's just a matter of goodwill. I'm talking about ambitions. You sure you're ambitious.
I think I lost because I was told it would be better to return to Palermo.
I return from Berlin, where you told me you want to live. Beautiful Berlin. Bella lives in Berlin. But the sky is too gray and your feet will freeze in the cold, the rain gets inside you shoes and four is already dark. You could live there anyway, maybe in a small room near a train station east two hundred euro a month. You could eat the salad and kebabs, you could also drink their coffee. You might pay attention to that bum who becomes a heroin right there where you take the subway every day. It could improve the English and wearing earmuffs, to live on hamburgers and hot water bottle, bear a sad and unhealthy in meters on Sunday for a tour of the stalls used to Mauerpark, Tacheles go when you want to make a barrel with some debauched, always Mauerpark to hear what your grandfather is from that generation, to speak with your friend Enna stoned to understand that art is not exactly art. One might go so, and live of tricks to Zoologischer Garten, or maybe in a coffee shop and in his spare time eating donuts and Sacher. Why not?
But first help me understand what I can do and what I can do. Can I stay here in Rome, but only if I win the Lotto. Any chore I did not pay me enough to allow the autonomy the rent of this room. Do not mess with Rome, and yesterday the pizza that I bought cost me a lot of money, ask really cost much and get to the Coliseum is more tiring than you might imagine. Here you get tired while walking. You get tired looking at the people running and you do not even worthy of a glance. You get tired because they call you 'flesh' or 'star' with hypocrisy that gives nausea, why do you smile when they want something in return, these Romans without friends. And sorry if we generalize.
And put me take to the mall or the office's sales 'Muoriroma' I always take the bus or train in the movie as we've never seen in full, what with Favino, the actor who was a bit 'you like. That the film was' sti long journeys by train in the fog that obscured the ankles and eyes always sad, but I'd like to go there to work only on sunny days, and always have an eye to the blue sea. What about love? Maybe I live in the world of fairy tales? We now believe that I'm not quite ripe? Now we believe that bears no resemblance to your mother? Now that you know All my ambitions are made only of 'words' and not facts?
Should I take a shower and go out looking for a job. And I'm not doing. Wasted hours of rent so, without being useful. Tomorrow I try, I promise.
The real trauma of those of our age is that they feel useless because nobody needs them. The lack of work makes us perfectly useless, and who knows how to just write, instead of working for the newspaper in his country and receive payment later this month, goes to work as a cashier at a motorway.
The only thing that satisfies is to write his verses on the toilet tiles of the same restaurants where her colleague, however, greater than two years - that 'grow up' wanted teaching - is the daily cleaning, deleting those lines for shots Chanteclair.
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