Last . They went
Theatre, which was midnight. The current from the square was not made them shudder: the winter was ending and it was not necessary to take refuge under the porch. He was well off, passing under the great apse of the Duomo, near the wall of green mold, drips of old holy water, frozen in winter and spring awakening.
Paul was desolate
- Madonna ... - And yawned, repressing even a blatant stretch arms merely to open a wing - a good thing that the air we wake up!
- Really, 'sti Russians are heavy, even if you can not say - did Luciano.
- Ah no, stop! - Said Paul suffered - Chekhov is just Pallos. I will never grow enough to please me Chekhov. E 'useless. I give up. And will not also explain why I do not like.
He stood silent for a moment, then went back to an idea:
- Well, no, but ... I do not like because it makes me sleep, and sleep I do not like, so if you prefer to sleep means that Chekhov is even worse. And I say that as I slept I can not judge ... The viewer is asleep a sharp critic: his trial was now matured into a final and irrevocable choice. Sleep is not a choice, but the effect of perception ... E 'Chekhov's Syndrome, which is lighter than that of Stendhal but more widespread, then a greater impact social. To treat the source, staying away from the causes ... Russians? No thanks, I'm trying to quit.
laughed well together, those two friends, the same act of placing his hand over her mouth as if to apologize. A gesture by seminarians, even if they had been together only by the sisters, in kindergarten. Maybe it was there that had they taught, at a time when the gestures that teach you then believe intuitively, when you learn not to remember, when you're a blank page, like a school notebook just bought, everyone wants to start in beautiful calligraphy , then the second page comes a deletion, an ink stain, and then his ears that the first and make ironing t'incazzi your mother with the sword, but that book will go the way of all others, with the stains and torn sheets and that if everyone takes it as he sees that the responsibility is his, we first page I made it hard to see how you do, put it in the model because, if he has ruined not our fault, and you'll always have that page pretty, linda, waiting for you, and every time it shows first, that even though the jumps you know she is there, reproaches him for your failure. The cruelty of a good example.
- However, - he Luciano reassuring. - It 's been a good season ... apart today.
- ... and that sort of Shakespeare. - Paul objected. - SCESp, indeed - And declaimed: - o'Sscespìr, chill ca nun chiagneva but faciva chiagne Nuie?. Poor classic authors, and therefore dead silent. Or there would be graves screaming. Think of these ghosts unfortunate when people who deserve applaud the cat.
- In Florence, they booed, you know, right?
- She 'Shut up, I felt a worm, when I heard. I too had applauded, what do you think? And before doing so I also looked at what others were doing, you realize? We are not a good result, we are the only county with an inferiority complex. Exchange still what we do not like with what we do not understand. The ultimate challenge is timid applause. E'normale who does not like what you do not understand, but a mature audience understands what they do not like. And we're not. And they knew it, otherwise they would not tour the comedy here.
-Chis, I have not done the same thing?
Quell'amarezza accompanied them, without words, to the square.
The bar had already closed.
- Are you sleepy? - Luciano said.
- Vala! I've been sleeping, no? For me it is dawn. Just do not feel like going to bed.
- Then take two chairs.
- Yeah ... like once. The
they pulled from the pile that stood between the columns along the porch, and stood nearby, a little askew, looking and looking to pass dead souls to the latest theater, which crossed the square as foreign bodies. More houses but not to direct the cars parked outside the walls, soles as hostile to the pavement, fearful of crossing places, places of regrets unacknowledged, ignored those two veterans returning from the invasion of Russia as you dodge those who had surrendered stopping, not to fall into the same fate.
Paul and Luciano had been friends forever. The same neighborhood, the same company, also a girl exchanged. Paul, however, women had had a lot more. He was the good of the company, "Doll," they called it. Luciano each time that his face looked sweet and fleshy with envy, especially when they were with women, knowing it was him who wished, and thinking about how many would he have been able, with that face.
- will be fifteen years since we were sitting here, at this time.
- Oh, yes. We did three, four, talking ... of what?
- Ah, really, I guess I did not say anything: I do not even remember one of those speeches.
- No, but I remember something. As the evening of the world. It was the eighty-two. There was criticizing Bearzot Carlin: "The faith I will know formasion: Zoff, Gentile, Cabrini, Scirea, Tardelli ..." and repeat the entire starting lineup of Italy who had played the night before, verbatim.
- Here, this' a Urbino - Luciano returned to that thought - it's like I said before, is a believer to understand what was already understood by someone else, and then goes to see confirmation that he already knew. But he does not notice. It 's a good old fool, age has nothing to do. Here it comes good, old balls, surrounded by good old balls that teach you as you are in the world. What do you expect?
- Mah! That bitterness. We Urbino, too, and do so. We've always talked a lot. Women, to you the American Beneluxury to me, "open your legs and learn Italian," the water balloon, racing motorbikes, and then, when we made the serious, there were absurd ideas, utopias, ideals proclaimed only to laugh or to impress the brothel. And now, now that we no longer have the excuse of age, what are we doing? Speeches useless sophistry, verbal acrobatics, wordy, or maybe even noble intentions do not even remember that tomorrow morning, and while we are on the brink of the abyss. And now, we are on the brink of the abyss, because we are the ones the past, those who have the fortune to contemplate the black abyss that are going to fall. Did you notice Urbino ends with us? We are the latest additions to the Hospital Elder.
At this point he stopped, pondering the effect of Luciano on that revelation, then, seeing his friend thoughtfully, it was decided:
- I have something to read. Rather than tell you what I have already written, perhaps pretending to think of the time you read them directly. Something we do not? And then I thought at least to bear witness ... Pliny the Elder as with Pompeii.
He pulled from his pocket a pair of folded sheets, while Luciano was looking at him, surprised and intrigued.
- Hello?
- Prontopronto. - Luciano could say smiling at the surprise.
And Paul began to read:
- I was born the hospital, the old one. The Hospital Elder. Two words that will not stay together for long, "the ... Monastero di Santa Chiara Hospital was home for a few years of SS.Misericordia. As when the dead man had a nickname, which will not.
Every day, unfamiliar words in a meeting between the crowd and then lost sight of. If we let go. And if the deductions, even if only for a while ', will not leave again. Start thinking light, like when my mother dusted the furniture, and in the beam of sunlight across the room appeared to be short strands of light. It was just dust, I know, but I loved watching her being noble and sparkling light, before disappearing. The glory of a moment that passes. As one of the motes, a thought goes round and round, gathering others to itself, becomes heavy. It asks not disappear.
Don Bramante.
Paul Icilio, Alexander and Bramante are my middle names. Don Bramante was determined to stay. He gave the book its extended memory and names that small, like messages in bottles. We are all so named, Bramante and Bramantino.
We, as Bramanti and Bramantino, the last to have had around the walls of Urbino at first glance.
on us and dropped the weight of years that we have not lived, but are the same as ours: the story of where we were heirs to have it loaded on the shoulders, before to the door. Behind us a long way, thousands of old souls have left forever behind the walls. Threshold crossed, the border exceeded. There will be no return. We die again and forever, this time. Even the soul can die. The soul of a city.
Perhaps the blame lies with someone. The fault is certainly someone. But maybe I'm wrong: there is no guilt. An entire community decides to leave the homes of its history, and then the fault does not exist. It 's just that the memory is no longer relevant, if not renders. One would think what to do, what to say, if someone were to do or say anything. Instead fits anyone. Almost everyone. I will not do. Maybe because we do not gain. And even this city, this pile of old bricks, perhaps screaming, certainly dumb, we earn. Maybe I'll talk
for her. Presumptuous. But who knows.
did not think that would happen. It's not that we believe, is that we do not think so. And even then did not care. The alleys were all over the world, all the time.
I did not want to go, asylum of the Sisters. Kept me at a table, watching the games closed, and ordered inside a glass case. I was good at my table. Pero 'I could be accused: I could not blow his nose. I never wanted to learn. To this day I still do not want to be able to blow it. A rebellion posthumously. If I learn how to get back would be sitting at that table, and do a good boy. I do not want to do a good boy. Not so. The past does not pass, I still live, and places they still feel trampled under foot.
waiting to take us in the garden, so I could see my mother greeted me from the terrace of the house. A torture. Only in the love of a mother is able to be so much treachery.
to convince me to go into the dark cabinet closed. But I felt better in the dark closet that asylum of the Sisters. Sometimes he could get me to the door, I see Sister Elvira that greets me with open arms when I say:
- I forgot the handkerchief! - And then I run home, never to return. I lied, but at least I know that I wanted my nose clean.
returned from my mother and my closet. In my closet and my mom. Even she did not want me to go, I understand only now. That shut me there was nothing but a ripormi in her womb. And as full of clothes, mother was full of clothes, the smell of her. I have also seen out of the mice from the cupboard, was a closet that led to the cellars. But resist. After a while 'is beginning to see something and you could sit on the quilts. He was afraid that I get away from her. If there was carried out on the terrace. She believed him to see me but it was because I saw her. To make me suffer the renewal of the posting and do not let the wound heal. But it is so, the mothers are so good. Do not you ever want to lose what you love, and if what we love is not lost.
But we went for a walk with Uncle Walter. Remote memories: he died that I was not yet four years. But I still have a frame in mind: he walks hunched in front of me, as I could do a lot older then, with his hands clasped behind his back, and I do the same. Since then I have always walked a little 'bent, and sometimes I like to put his hands in that way and remember. We went to the tavern of the square of grass, where were his friends, old as he. Even the inns were old, and died with them.
We did the rounds of all: the Idea, as a new well, Cesare, Via del Leone, Montas and Cecconi, facing each other Valbona for, and who knows what else. Every now and then I bought a "biscottol, a donut of dry bread anise, which releases its flavor dipped in wine. More than anise, however, knew of smoke, pipe smoke and Tuscan was stuck for days, who knows how many, on a magnificent trident wood leaning against the counter. Glorious image of rural labors are recognized at the time of rest. There were no windows in the bars, only the door was like a winter fog, inside. There are also those cookies today, locked in their toilets cellophane, with the expiry date, ingredients, nutritional values, standards of conservation. Are not the same cookies. In this story there are no "Madeleines".
was to go to church that I began to go out alone. The parish of San Bartolo, between Via Battisti and Via Budassi, expanded from the countryside into the stone. Da Don Dante were the foosball table and ping pong. There were so many to want to play, so the loser went out, or they played "American", running all around the ping pong ball to hit one at a time, and those who came out was missing. When we stayed in three ran like crazy around that table, es'inciampava. Marcello had two large teeth, and when he tripped him planted on the table. Involuntary imprint is felt more than he, his agency took him away, a sad February a few years later.
That same table, every August, was covered with reeds and large sheets of green, the colors of Lavagine on the Feast of the kite.
We were the strongest, the most numerous, well-trained army that left a church. Like the Crusaders, weapons blessed. And as for them, if there were excesses was for a good cause: he cut some wire, some kite, contempt, they made some children cry, but eventually he won, this meant something. In the evening we went to play the drums around the neighborhood of large, hated rivals, those yellow kites, those of Hong Kong.
But nemesis is coming, and now we all live in Hong Kong. That dragon, that monster has spread its tentacles beyond measure, beyond the hills of the north, and sprayed them with the blood of our lives. He dug out, eradicated, there has even taken away the will to resist, bland with the undeniable light that floods its phalansteries. There has corrupted to betray. So today in San Bartolo
no longer even the pastor. It is a canon of the cathedral to some old, on Sunday. Then, on Sunday, arrived a little late if you could not enter, by the people. You had to move from outside to the sacristy, choir loft and go in with the biggest that made you tease. There was a hierarchy in assigned seats: smaller, catechumens, along with the nuns in the front row. The sides of the two benches for the older ones, and finally ascension, the goal of the choir for the boys. The men were at the bottom, near the exit, or even outside. Instinct of ancient peasant customs, where men do business and barter in the churchyard holiday. From the countryside to San Bartolo, and now out again.
There was rejection.
For centuries, life has gone unchanged, then a few years and everything is gone. Great luck, have fresh memory of distant centuries. We were encouraged by the altar boys
Board of admissions. Mass served a blackened box, and at the end of the month you very much, say a thousand pounds in the first, five hundred to one hundred and fifty in the second and third place. Towards the end of the month, the final shot, we went to the blessings, to vespers, for every function possible, sometimes even five or six, and people laughed. It was necessary division of labor. This created risks as well as skill. Sometimes you need to do things that were never made.
The bell rope was not on the ground floor, a door of the choir loft overlooking the pit, inside the bell. One day a makeshift rope from the bell-ringer was sucked into the bell of the trumpet, and resumed the flight just before it fell.
Another time, in the sacristy, we did a competition to see who could go around to the death all'aspersorio full of smoldering incense. At Veris, at maximum thrust, escaped from his hands, hit the ceiling and the embers of 'incense were scattered on the carpet, on the vestments of the altar, and burnt a bit' all over the world. In a moment we were able to extinguish any outbreak and not heard from again. To me, one of these hard-working afternoons this month, happened to serve an evening alone. My play was the bell, the one that is played during the ceremony of the Eucharist, the most solemn moment of the entire mass. I had told Don I wanted to be the best, but I did not know what to do. So I waited until he turns to the tabernacle, and in a moment I took the bell to a lady who was in the front row, sure he knew I had found the most experienced.
- she sounds when it is time, please! - She took quell'onere glorious, and everything went smoothly.
I am convinced that poor Don Dante on those occasions he thought seriously to eliminate the premiums. Today should hundredfold: there are more children in San Bartolo, there is not even the priest. There are the old, the parents of the time, who have seen their old die and children leave, and have the students in the rooms which were children.
did not think would happen when tens flooded the streets crying without knowing why. We wanted to be. It just screams came to the world, and continues to cry out for long, to be sure that you have noticed our presence. When they want to hide. From the swarming streets
often in the countryside just outside the door of Lavagine. It was close, then, the campaign was part of the city. Just outside the door was a great time, in the way of the Dead, which was under three interconnected tanks. The first was white soap, and there the women washed clothes. The third was very clear for the final rinse. This was taboo for us, woe to get us a stone, or even just to get their hands: we were running away screaming and slaps from lavender. Just beyond the
began washing the dirt road leading to the Perlo. On the one hand, in a secluded clearing, the yoke for shoeing the beasts. He impression reminded the forks of the stories of Tex Willer. But Pearl was especially the place of the huts just below the road, the stain was steep and thick. There, in groups of two or three, he was cleaning a patch of land, it is camouflaged, it was hiding something important in order to make our defense, traps are placed at the entrance. Then he started to go out and destroy those of others. The most beautiful, however, became common property, place of meetings. I remember a great and beautiful, finished with steps and open like a balcony overlooking the valley. The edge of the terrace overlooked a ditch with brambles, and right there on it was a big liana. The test of courage: to throw the rope over the abyss and return to the terrace. Of course you could not subtract. And of course someone was going to happen sooner or later. It fell to Donato. When it launched I was there. I saw the rope break when fully extended, when Donato was as high and far. We saw him fall and disappear into the abyss, without a cry. It took all afternoon to get him out: for every move the nettles and brambles hurt him, but in the end there was almost nothing.
Now on all this passes the ring. Sometimes I go for a walk, where they were to review our huts, but there's nothing to do, are just below the road, and if you go do not know anything. In many places we go without knowing the great and amazing things that have made children a hundred and a thousand years ago? Which companies may have made those children? Everything, everything was great, indeed, "beastly", but small children do immense things no one knows, not even those same children, once grown, will judge the case. But our adventures were really huge, because it occurred in an absolute time. There was no sense of death to relativize every action, there was no comparison with the rest of the world and history, it was just us and our immortality. I really thought that there would be nothing ever happened, not even thought at all to the time of life. We thought at the time of day. The rest of the world was only a hoax, that there was inattentive audience.
E 'was only the hill from where to launch kites. An ideal place for that, there are no cables, the wind can come from all directions, and it was nice to be there sitting with cotton yarn in hand, with the kite stable and suspended in the middle of the sky. There was also the shade of three large poplars. They are still there, I see them every day, but if I watch them with memories I feel a pain. I feel like I betrayed them: they have deserted. Because I, because we're not at their feet with our kites? If they were not there more I could understand, there would be no one to visit. Visit the sick. And the faithful friends who have left? I feel guilty. I know that I am crazy. If I sat there, what I would do, with dozens of cars passing every minute, curious people, and my invisible years that I can justify? I would wake up one morning and be alone in the world, go anywhere you want to be alone and be really, only a few days, just long enough, then get back to everyone, God forbid, perhaps to disappear and I let others do the same. Andrei
to launch my kite, and let the wire get tangled in the branches, to say to those poplars "hold, I leave to you hank, but be careful to give him the edge when they want it. I'll be back soon: I have not played enough ... "
one step away from those poplars, a little further on, there were vines and cherry trees. Now the road between them. Among those screws went there with Agnes. We had twelve years. Forget those moments forever, even whole days, maybe a week ago, and all those older than twenty or thirty years, we know that we will never forget. I remember the location where we were, lying on the grass facing each other, and even the newspaper I read, Billy Bis, that day arrived with a finger to touch her nipples, pretending to read on. Who knows how long I stayed on that page on that figure, with those fingers paralyzed. I saw that Billy jumped on his Isotta Fraschini, and could imagine that nipple. Already had well-formed breasts, and I do not know what to do. I was not able to go further and do not want to lose that contact. Yet years later and the girls proved to me that I was not at all shy. Only she did not know going forward. Maybe I did not want. I did not want to abandon the time of innocence, I did not grow. Moreover even today I would. Have done so. I'm an immature. Never grow. But why? There really is a utility in growing, and what? There is a convenience in growing, yes. Convenience. Agree, agreement, conventional, flat, sloppy, trivial, common, conformist. No, no, I will not grow. I want to plant a tree and watch it grow, that is growing up. And I want to be that tree. I the only one who was then masturbated legggendo Billy Bis.
a vine, maybe I would be. Among the screws you hide it well during the day, we went with the girls, and were kissing. It was intoxicating like making love really, but then I did not know, and I believed that love was complete shock. For me it was the landing of Martians. Now it's like to see them again. In many episodes
few meters, and so different moments, lived outside the walls. I do not know if my memories are city \u200b\u200bor country. I think maybe I was preparing the fate of the exiles. Paul was silent. He looked up and stared at his friend in silence.
Then Luciano uttered the phrase that he thought several times during the reading, as a parallel thought to the attention of the audience, which ran on a different plane and personnel
- You've brought especially for me, or there you have ever had in my pocket?
- I had it in his pocket for a while ', but expects to read tonight ... I do not want anyone else to read it.
Then, after a pause and a breath
- do you think?
- Ah! You say you do not want anyone else to read it and then ask me how. Who has only one player is interested in the substance, not form, no?
Paul stood silent for a while ', the first to recognize the truth:
- Come on, you know that the form and content, otherwise there is no message. The great writer and a failed two are still graphomania. And I want to know who you are of them. So, if you do not like to leave immediately lose.
- Madonna, that responsibility! Never be without that world literature of the new rising star! So I will not, "said lowering the tone. - We say that there is a phone that engulfs and fascinating, compelling reason to give you, the reason that we tend to give consistent. But you know what is said about autobiographies, that when you realize you can not go down in history to go to the literature. It 'an uphill battle, your. We'll talk when you've written it all, if you have more to say ... Rather, I see you live burns out, eh?
- I do not burn out live, I burn be forced. Not being able to choose from. And then I burn that blackmail of the landscape, the sun, which is nothing but a damn trap: many go to stay away from windows because of these barracks, clinging to the hillside, the look is lost behind the sun, until ' more distant, and makes you forget what you have to close. When I went to see my apartment, in fact, I am said: "However, I can finally see the sunset every night, summer and winter. Here, in short these out-houses are not so bad. "And so you give a damn. You move, then go a bit 'of time, not so much, and one morning you see that start of excavation, a little' further downstream. Slowly, inexorably, a new home before it grows, just between you and the hills, between you and the sunset. As for Time, the time of growth of the palace is the time that separates you from running. That look that was lost in projects far ... there was no limit to widen perspectives - the metaphor to life is obvious, no? - Until then, one evening, everything ends. The cement will tighten. A premature death planned, scientific, already foreseen in the plans, land records you did not know about that but certainly there, somewhere where no one had attended. For pity's sake. Not to give you the pain of the truth. This applies to taking the piss, which does not sit well with me. Luciano
jumped up, suddenly impatient to that place and quell'indolenza, and even the china that was taking the speech, but denying the pretext of an escape to a final walk thought that reconciliation with those bricks:
- Where did the car? - He said.
- Out Lavagine - Paul said he stood up, slowly, as held by an invisible weight.
- Well, me too. However, since you did not want to go to sleep, we do around the walls.
So back to that road again, back to where they were coming. Back and forth, but only twice in one night, out of the arcades along which were one hundred times a hundred baths in one night, maybe one hundred times a hundred greeting the same people, but every time I greet with faded away, to fade in 'hint of an eyebrow, and fortunately at some point we went home, because if it continued still would come indifference, then no justification for hatred, the futile reasons, the cause of a fierce fight. Trivial reasons and deep hatred of finding your peers in your own conviction. The suit notes that prison and killing dell'ergastolano see her in well-pressed. Why? Futile plea. Or maybe not. Symbols. Still
lights on the theater. Humble people, workers, the under-the-scenes. It occurred to Dickens. Read more and more every real thing reminded Paul something imaginary, dreamed of by others. He said:
- You're right, I have yet to figure out if I write or de-write. The autobiography is not literature.
- Not so: it is if you limit yourself to the facts. What would remain of the Recherche, if we confined ourselves to the fable? Do not worry, not to think about how to write, that one does not learn, even if some writers rounds revenue unlikely setting up "schools" speculating about deluded. Writing to you, not for an audience that you just have to imagine. Think of it as thousands of yourself, a friend but not indulgent, but also has some original ideas. If you do not know what to say, is' just shut up. If you have an idea, throw or leave it alone until it is exhausted. Behind a single idea fortunes have been built. And the quality has never been to weight ... when did you start?
- this. I wanted to mark that one day I'd forgotten. Then I realized that I'm much better in the past and present. I am an anxious person, I'm afraid of any situation, not to control it. But in the past I know what's going to happen, even if it were a disease, a humiliation, a bad impression. I know. Yet I also know that there is no nostalgia for me. The anxiety did not miss, if I remember the anxiety, if an episode lived retain only the outward appearance, his image, forgetting how we lived. A little 'as Pavese said: It is good to be children, it's nice to be old to remember when we were children. Who knows what dark thoughts stirred up your mind on that day at the beach, again in a flash-back. Life is anxious that of the hypochondriac, a waste. Every moment, good or bad it is, it becomes the worst and a threat. But enough, that the moments beautiful are normal, so inert that it contains no active danger. Happiness fears time, the misery that this has stopped. Only the norm has no enemies, and rejoices the absence of pain. Ataraxia, consolation of the poor.
- Ah, so this would be a moment ataraxia: thanks - Luciano joked. - Alright ... Now
walked in silence.
The silence was not absolute, as it has never anywhere, even in the desert, where the heartbeat and agitation of the lungs are expanded in space, and expand the presence of man to who knows where, for deafening echo them back. When it remains only to become a symbol. It becomes all. If I were alone in the world, I would not be the whole of humanity? Only death is silence in the desert.
Walking with a friend along the walls, the silence is beautiful, has the flavor of melancholy thoughts and comfortable, are the last words in mind and prepare it more slowly, as when you're in the mouth the taste of coffee and will not accept anything ' anything that would ruin him. The desire to build a house of cards, take him higher and higher without touching what has already been done, the fear of dropping everything without being able to stop, see where you can get, then someone opens the door to the wind, and all ends in a crash.
Luciano added a map
- There comes a time that you make the budgets. It draws a line e. ..
- Enough! - Paul interrupted him - for tonight we have nothing more to say about it, and since we are still far from the parking lot, we try to change the subject.
- I understand! When you do not know what to tell you, there's nothing to hear.
- Come down, do not be touchy, that I said just take away the embarrassment. Was shortly before that said "Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse" and then we were fine.
- Hey, want to talk about pussy?
- Always a good topic!
- Okay - Luciano saw where it was and he had an idea - but only if it is relevant with places where we go, okay?
- Eh ... okay - Paul set in motion the memories - for example, down there. Watch ... - Luciano leaned against the wall and did the same - see there? Pointed at the wall of the first time I touched my pussy. The Wolf ...
- Ah, ah! The knew that there were hundreds in the past and you did not know what to do, you went forward to touch her pussy for an hour until he has not stuffed, right?
- Shit, I was thirteen, not I could do everything like you. I was of good family, I came from the schools of the nuns, not from the pasture.
- Look what I miss but I never had Luppa en el anchorages' by Tocalli, cute, and if you must know this idea of \u200b\u200bthe place came to me looking at the tower of S. Marco, where I won the shooting stars with Joelle. That means that it was impossible, that darkened the Luppa! You remember, the Joelle? - Raised his voice. - You have to remember, all you have to remember, though woe to those who forget the fucking. It was mine, and I will not ever again, so beautiful. And wherever it is, it sure is always too far away from me. Or maybe I'm watching from somewhere, she, too beautiful for one planet, one of thousands of forms of life in the universe, but the best of all, with his powerful telescope ... - Then waved the stars and said: - Hello Joelle, wherever you are, you're always mine!
- Now I understand why the Martians are not: they scare you! - Paul said. But Luciano continued to miss:
- Ah, yes ... thousands of life forms, yes, there are clearly. Easily convince ourselves of this. But then there are thousands of forms of death, no?
- Form of Death ... death is always one for all;: simple absence.
- Then there is also in those planets where life never was. So the only life there somewhere, and we are not even sure of that, while death is certainly a lot more places.
- It is said, - Paul said - if the universe is a balance of everything and its opposite, and many say, as opposed to the death wasteland that surrounds us in this solar system, star clusters must be full of life, where the planets overflowing crowd of screaming, crowded, mates and passes from one party to 'other riding missile-shaped champagne cork whistle and whistle from one planet to the neighbors and have no peace, and in the rare moments of reflection, we wonder if there are uninhabited planets in the universe somewhere, where shelter and wait until finally a death that will not come. Mah ..! Just think 'if Joelle, if you are one of' sti planets pleasure, he begins to lose time watching you. And then, if one has to look at, look at me.
And so resumed the street talking about women, and there were stories to tell along the Spineto, the tower of St. Clare, to the walls of San Bartolo. Only for a few moments returned to raise his head when he noticed the passing of Luciano Jupiter on Zenith, and recalled after a breakthrough due to falling stars added
-I wish every night was San Lorenzo - he said - and that the stars many were to fall more and more bright and all colors that fall all year round, even during the day, that even the blind could see, and that you wish you could all come true, even those opposed to each other. Yet it will never be the case. See? Not the best of all worlds. This could make me think that God does not exist, and yet I'm not sure of anything. I also think that perhaps God did this imperfect world just to leave us in doubt. In a perfect world there is no room for doubt. And then the Faith, which has the nature of the doubt, what would it be?
The question would have deserved a more serious, in fact, dropped it in the air and went back to talking about sex as if nothing had been pushed. There is nothing more imaginative stories of sex. They came to the door Lavagine who had just scratched the topic. You can not go on forever talking about women, but still came time to say goodbye.
- And now, as we will not meet again? - Paul said
- until you've finished another chapter, is not it?
- I hope before ... I wonder if you will lose your hands.
- Ah, no, I want to see it finished, you know I can not stand the waste of time, so at this point you have to continue and finish, okay?
- Okay.
- Promise?
- Promised!
- Good night.
- Hello.
And that night, got home, though they were two and a quarter, Paul stood for a while 'to look at his sleeping son, every night as he felt his chest filled with joy and sadness, thinking about love and beauty , and all that it does not last. She kissed him, then went to bed. The next morning was supposed to work, but still thinking. It was not just a thought, for those sooner or later get tired and leave you to sleep, it was a reshoot of suspicion and projects that overlap each other and struggled to prevail, he would listen to hours and hours on this one, without them hold. The result was a loud noise in his head: Luciano wanted to go on, but he said he just want friendship or because he liked it so? And if he liked, what had fascinated him, the subject, style, rhythm? Write only change the mental life or that practice?
the end, as every night, fatalism prevailed, the disposition of the soul that precedes any healthy sleep and sleep reconciles with the inevitable.
The next morning he felt differently. He remembered one of the resolutions taken on the eve of sleep was excluded from his life all that did not matter. Abandon all the posts useless waste of time, the projects short breath. Secretary of the Motorcycle Club: What would ever give him in exchange for this life? Nothing, because he offered nothing.
So even that morning, as happened occasionally, probably more often than not usually happen to a man, he remembered the last time in his life, and liked to think of the sentence he had already prepared " avant moi ... the deluge! "means the summary of his life, the disaster which had dragged along with it, without having been able to put remedy. An unnecessary step, a slow passing of time wasted, and only for this seemingly short.
Why you think it a matter of ten years ago, and now there seems to be gone only a day? Because it's been really only one day, he was always on the same day which was repeated tremilaseicentocinquantadue times, always him. What other facts are interposed between us and that day, if not empty episodes, thoughts unnecessary deaths? The work, shopping, wash the car, practice, visit, chat, greeting, dinner, television, sleep, then work, shopping, petrol to the car, practice, visit the chatting, greeting, dinner, television, sleep. They live without thinking that one day we will discover that life has passed over, or under, or her, or to the side, however there has passed, we and the little things that we kept so unnecessary, and at that point we would like to start all over again with a new and stronger consciousness.
regrets, regrets, regrets. Wasting your life, this is hell. Then try to think about the journey you have made ten years ago, and found at least a precise memory for each of those ten years. Only ten memories. Sounds easy, but could not. So, it would mean that you have lost a whole year, and seventy years you do not even set aside seventy facts memorable. And those few will not you be able even to write, tears in her eyes you would not see.
Fear makes us live like rats, holed up in our weak security, takes away the power to put into question, groped the way of utopia that well we certainly have. Fear of poverty, disease. The relief of a poor sick is that he has nothing to fear. It also removes the last death fears. Every day an "I" frustrated every day by thousands of adhesions on which we download our cowardice, the chain of the offender succeed we forged our own, and do not seek an apology.
All these were his thoughts for a moment. Not deployed them in words, but there was no need. Now had his fellow travel, and would not have separated.
.
