now, I've played in recent times often a phrase, a bit 'mucciniana but not devoid of charm, which goes something like this: "one thinks of life as something to come, and instead Life is now. " the point is that young people perceive life as something to come, because in some ways this is so, because our skin and our thoughts really chasing a form and substance that we have not. and when one begins to think of life as something that already exists, it is here, good or bad it is, then it means that it is no longer young, it means that at least has begun to tread the path of adulthood.
change the subject. I still weigh the fatigue tests of a life than I did, but especially those who have not done much to throw a banality, a phrase.
but it's true, I think, and I say: why the fuck, one, then, should never ask the opinion others? why the important issues of our existence must be scanned from the examination and perhaps a night's sleep, a cutlet, a drag on his cigarette? or a withdrawal from an ATM? or a coffee in paper cup, drunk walk?
always within a day of tense and over-the-walls of this city, you do not know how many and how many times I can think of something to write, something I say to look tonight and I write, I write it down. but then the thoughts have been accumulated and uncovering unable to add up as Christ commands, then multiply-as Christ commanded the loaves and fishes, and soon became one of the other powers (you want to put the fun of eating fish with bread and bread with the fish, instead of either one or the other), and then here's an idea that in four four eight (or, rather, four in the fourth two hundred fifty-six) turns in some wonderful nothing, that is to say a few issues so complicated that nobody can count it.
nothing new for those who know these pages imaginary.
forward, therefore, with my share of anything new. I was going to say rather than dose per diem while in fact the my wickedness is not even granted the benefit of consistent, everyday. and is known to be virtuous in vice and evil, so as to exceed in virtue. while I-I grew up on bread, appetizer, first, main course, dessert, fruit, coffee, ammazzacaffè, water, wine, drinks, cover charge and a tip-it is an angelic mediocrity.
this is not true, because I rather be facing into a serious, disciplined, full of good intentions and practical solutions, quickly and effectively. a being able to wait and be patient when it also the case. a being able to settle for bread and bread and fish and seafood.
and not easy for me to admit that I, that being. to be so, now finally someone who knows what to do and especially what he wants. become one that becomes.
one who gets up after all, that all things work, study, addresses, talks, investigates, uncovers, reacts, remedies, or bank. a bread bread and wine to wine, just to get back to the ingredients of the sacred recipe.
cries anechoic doctor for my burning throat.
and write badly, I think I was fifteen. not that that much has improved over time, indeed. but at least I realized over time that rarely knows the urgent need to stage a masterpiece.
and oh well, write shit, if needed, just to satisfy the question, really? we were really there? really was I? us? you? I did not believe even for a moment to be there.
once knew better words, and the apples had a different skin color. I broke out the pocket, I went to the cafe and when I came out I had some ideas to put them in your bag, because my head is not there they were. I did not want anything and everything.
tonight, however, there is a light in my room a bit 'rough and weak. I have no genius girl fragrant, are incapable of choosing curtains and candles, and everything that goes on around me gray. this is not to say anything sad. myths is that I spread on the walls and I have no music worth listening. I have no one to think about. tonight in my room there is only one person, and I am, and I read, I write, I'm mostly a nod, and the time behind my effort to Starmie.
once knew better words, and my hands went straight to the point, when it came to writing. if I reread them now I do not like me but this in no way means that I have improved.
is true is always true that when you do a new thing is so complicated that it will necessarily be bad.
that this phrase must have written picasso, somewhere, was in the epigraph to my high school final examination. who looked at me, of that little book did not like anything, and there is nothing to wonder, after all. work was honest enough, but I had not been in years-of-school honest enough to be able to sustain. quell'epigrafe sounded like an apology, not a excusat petita.
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