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» A love poison
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» Giotto's pastels
» Preludes to Lutin
The objects are important, above all those that last, are damaged
with the time, but remain solid to make us remember far
persons, other things, ceremonies, the dead men. I have a coffer that
left me the eternal wish of candies and chocolates, a photo
that remembers me a person that have nothing to do with me of
which i don't remember even the name, but since it is not a beautiful photo
is there large, throning on the wall like if that girl who acted as
a male with the dark cloth hat while she smokes a cigarette and
watches me were truly important for me.
Unknown yes, but
perhaps important she is. Explain to me why I embrace it with
wool white glove and I remember even the cold that I felt in
that moment, leaned to a wall cracked with behind the winter park.
Perhaps her name was... not, i am not sure.
walls I have seen alot between the photos of the wanderings
without goal, without thoughts, with love stories of some hour.
A hallucinatory crystal fungus, a lacquer box that a boy stole for me
in a pastry shop, a musical cassette that repeats a phrase, never
pronounced by my great loves. Not even who recorded it for a
birthday. After fifteen years he called me by phone with
the same voice and I finally, it was the hour, refused.
gift of love, a purple stone, I threw away as soon as he
had gone, because I did not believe that it was magic In
fact the airplane regularly left.
When I close with a
person I deceive myself to throw every object that could be combinable with,
but it is not. They resurface outside from everywhere the
forgotten things, and in the least appropriated moments. Signs on the
wall that do not go away, cigarette burns on the sheet, spots on
and then you remember that he liked enormous
glasses and that he learned to you to make a better coffee
and to wash the ass, but it's not important, as are not
the stolen reviews to others, the bad thoughts. Other
it's right having removed the annual posture of dirtness
suddenly from belly-buttom, having thrown some books,
having realized that I needed of glasses for sight, being
faster to move, more rational in equipping new houses,
conserving in optimal state the ones abandoned. The keys are essential
in double copy only for me, to be sure not to remain closed
outside, in a dark and stormy night. And the comic strips,
Donald Duck, the witches, Paperone and Brigitta, as I said to someone who
did not understand it, down for the scales of house, closed outside. Life is wonderful.
The bottom that I never
played, the rat of Berlin, a green enamel drop on cotto.
And another important name that to hard work I have remembered now and completely I had forgotten. Another piece of my amusing
life as collector.
I am more than satisfied, because the
friends, little, are those that take just their road, while the
enemies and the false friends remain to you glue to see you die.
Someone sometimes are succeeded, making the jumps mortal,
to ship him to the moon, and there is always the danger that he could return
even from there.
Therefore every day is the dream of a new
friend to meet and desire to escape to all the others, than
unfortunately, at this point, are introduced also too much well.