Baby & Phlegm & Medication

(quadernetto)

These days I write a little book on black (or rather color board), I write a thousand typos, tilt it, I write sentences in half, but does not seem bad. If I had time to complete them, then. I discovered that I write have to be patient (with myself than with others) and that the color of patience (I do not think sound has the patience) is not resignation, but that hope too. And the pain too. And courage too.

How To Make An Indoor Cubby House

Lieve (assonanza)

Maybe while I was amused, along with other eyes (as my good time), the choice of a (white) shirt birthday share Perhaps it was then that I thought about it. In the mild beauty of generosity, the privilege of meeting the written word, first, by ascoltare e raccontarsi, poi, nei gesti, nella voce, nel suo sguardo sulle cose e sugli altri. Sulle persone (piccole e grandi) che lo circondano e che ama e che quel suo amore ricambiano con altre parole, altri gesti, altre voci, altri sguardi. La stessa generosità che esiste nel colore screziato degli occhi, che non si lascia definire eppure sembra fatto per insegnarti a riconoscere mille altre sfumature differenti e straordinarie. Senza che tu debba dare loro un nome. Perché non sempre c'è o ce n'è bisogno. Ed è la generosità che abbraccia forte anche da lontano. E rende quel lontano incredibilmente tanto vicino. Ed è la sua .

(I fervently hope, wishes slight as your name)

Sand Ceremony Vows Mother

(da comodino)

How shall the thoughts together in the evening ... Among the papers that I have left and right, the promise of a good story on the bedside table, that if it takes courage to become even better in my head. The air that is allowed by the half-open window, along with the distant sounds of the curve of the road leading into town. The air we already know a little in summer, but retains the gentle grace of spring. My glasses heavy eyes heavy are new? seems different! or are different my eyes? The title I have stolen from the library when vague elsewhere, as a tourist alone with the bag full of leaves and ice cream in one hand, and which reads Love does not say . But as far as I know, sometimes writes, sometimes whispered, sometimes you, sometimes you remember, sometimes gives way ... No, maybe not sinks, not even abandons the amorechenonsifadire.

(At night, I know, does not keep good thoughts and the book, I leafed through fun and thoughtful, is still there on the shelf where one afternoon all, I had called. Wait, in vain, that I am ready.)