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Di ricordi, di carta, di braccia.

(image here, passing here )

I remember me I hear them all sitting on the bottom of the head and the fact that they want (and can) keep in mind special parts, details, pain and delight of my thoughts, helps me not to escape anything. There are memories that I browse through the eyes, and I wonder how many things remain in the eye, there are flavors of leather, there are no words, I have no idea that words are still hanging from the lobes and sometimes mix with the hair or stretch the neck, I protect the neck from the wind. I remember words. Spoken or written, are there for me.

And then. And then the other day fishing from the small library room of my bag of memories of a few years ago. Turquoise bag that reads Debenhams - Britain's Favourite Department Store. Shot on a letter dated September 29, 2003, my parents. A real letter, but the spots of ink are true. And the stamp from 41 cents. Write to me that maybe I'll have to fight with my shyness, with loneliness. My father adds a Be brave. I started recently and yes, perhaps far enough. And he also says that the feeling that something is missing, an arm to be exact. I remember in these days of sitting inside my head that sometimes help, help myself, covered her up and talk to them, I think of how beautiful and challenging to be the arm of someone. Be from afar. Be the arm of a hand drawing things. Courageous.

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una mattina

August 8, air in September, blue square glued to the window, the lazy mid-morning coffee suspended in the mouth and in her mouth still good. Look away from telling aspect eyes full of visions, places new eyes, eyes that say "and then ... and then ... and then ..." even without speaking.

The boot and the back. Being able to hear more in your words. And there, at home, know that you can come back.

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(La bontà di una giornata)

Today was not a good day maybe, but I left him to finish in the skin of David, who has a few more days a month old. What a gift it is to touch that skin, which is white and stir the senses and the wonder of the eyes, nose and hands? The faces of serenity satisfied by the mother's womb, the same skin in the breast milk of David blooming. I thought to myself, that gift is.

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(ma non ne so parlare)

of music I do not know hardly anything and I do not know about. But ... But when you happen to be near a small stage in a small plaza which is like a little cradle, you have like a whole new vision of what you hear: Have you any idea of \u200b\u200bthe physical effort and looks of understanding and mutual enjoyment, as if the rhythm be built in the eyes that seek out and live in bodies ( flying , blow, pluck , touch ) and provide the tools, bass and drums that make you vibrate with something (I do not know, really) in it, something hidden that comes out gradually, while this tool here brings you incredibly far away, away but straight up. And then the clothes pegs that hold the balance sheet (more or less). They, too, and you fly away, while sitting, follows them with the same lightness. Beyond the square, over the heads and their thoughts. In addition.