Andrea, from the window, listen to the water to wet the pavement.
slip through the courtyard of the old gneiss, forming rivulets insistent Pac Man imprisoned in the labyrinth of a tough river reaches the puddle on the right. And that opens the breathing drowning too. Echoes in the attic the barrel of water rinse the courtyard. Hunting the smell of yellow snow and enlivens the dull gray with frost. Stagnant water and freeze dog piss together the cocktail on Saturday. The newly opened window: the air blow stabs you in the face. But Andrea
hearer, does not see. There
the bottom of the canopy that obscures the view and forcing hypothesis.
is asked what time the hour of air, I think I look
remain lying on the bed from there I only see her shoulders sagging.
first by a quick look over my book. A hand to revive the raven hair. Try again from below my chin sinking into the neck of wool. I differ a little to reach the face, but I find it turned sideways, and the look is hidden.
I wonder what you ask, there still. A minute to waste a winter afternoon.
January
heavy they say it in so many. Long and dangerous for those who have a few projects. For Andrea
not seem to matter. January is the same as in July or October.
is always good for him anyway.
I am the controversy, the inconstant, the undecided. Menstruating and more. Never seraph and continuously attention. A lazy cat, made alert. From the need of strays wandering.
Andrea, I go out - to do this, raising his voice a little - taking your car to a mechanic, I do a tour around the slaughterhouse.
Andrea looks at me and smiles distorted, did not even want to get up from there.
Next time - mumbles bored. I watch the telly, Virginia, really - I shrug my shoulders and greet
puffing. Then go downstairs, coat, hat. The courtyard at its center, greets me desert. I do not turn
Andrea, but I feel you, from there I look within.
The need of strays wandering. A locomotive whistle me back to reality after a fake sleep. I crawl right up into the kitchen with tears encrusted cheeks hot.
The pillow does the job of ironing a tube. Stretch fabrics and folds in the news, do not handle or remove stains textures. You keep the wrinkles and dark circles you have, he cleanses the brain but your face is shown.
Towards the hot water for tea in the cup from the kettle bubbling. The cigarette rears in balance silk between my fingers. I bend a little 'wrist to prevent the ash ends up in the cup tilted to accommodate the flow. Then I sit listening to the sounds of those who sleep in the houses opposite. Concrete and brick walls that seem eternal. Glued to mine, as the strips of wax cold.
No one at home, and I do not believe it.
I fear the wait, the return and tomorrow, from today onwards.
Out now is the night.
The headlights are sparse and suspect.
egg yolks into the pan black. Stick the masking tape as dell'autodidatta whitening.
I brought the car home after the review, required two years of honest drivers. Crossed my city in fervent expectation of a Sunday with the sun, gray days after wet snow and a learned.
incoming queues.
The outgoing queues.
queues on main roads. My heart beats that emerges from the wrists groin. Running in the wrong direction I stop a moment to catch his breath. A mechanical time-consuming waits, he promised me the car right before the weekend, young lady. The neck flushed for wool that stings and armpits sweat winter cold, I walked past the garage at six. Entering and leaving in a fluid and fast, as you would with a regular day hospital. Eighty
€, greetings and pleasantries.
I sat at the wheel and I as diaphragmatic breathing or yoga in the church choir. Lifted his shirt and pulled her sweater in contact with skin. To address the fake after heat stroke. I turned on the machine, the fan hot on the radio. Since a minute and wrapped her coat from behind the seat. Conveniently situated on the padded jacket, to a thickness between the back and the seat. Then finally I walked away from there, to entering the queues at times, silently lying in wait for me. Forty minutes limited to a crawl. I parked in a side-way, way out of the inner ring. I bought a music magazine to encourage the print media sector in a web-pervasive. Duty and volunteer personnel. Tribute to nothing to my teenage memories. Approaching the house I saw the ambulance and run down the mirror of a parked car. The electric gate carelessly opened, a door to close and the other stuck on one side. They slipped into the gap given in the courtyard I saw lumps of snow on the ground in poses unlikely. Andrea, from the window hath been launched when I was gone. Where I was. I was not there in the middle, to take the flight.
escape from the ring forever. The book I read that tires me and keeps me awake: the war continues between the eyes and brain. I have nothing to do this weekend. And if this not feel like going out now. It's almost six, and the thought of diving nell'ansiogeno traffic after shopping on Saturday, immobilizes me. Humoral din of those who close shops and falls for dinner. Run mad, overtime aperitif groping in the dark looking for a parking lot. Cars, real estate was the rhythm of the ticking of taxometri invalidate the lights creating seamless code. Thistle and decumano, forget the rules.
I stretched on the bed and turn on the stereo. Beirut's songs are cotton temples. Feather and tickle Andrea what do you say? Andrea says nothing and zapping on TV, volume off a strip of medium gray color alternates with the strength of advertising violates the Nuvenia. Then I hear the bells. Andrea gasps and looks at me with empty eyes. I smile. We seem to have a bell tower to the balcony. Then rises. Open the window and launches. Not even the deaf hear the body in the snow. I hear the bells. The bells continue to sound and Beirut. For me. A cotton swab to dab the heart. The paper towels in the holes of public toilets, far from prying eyes, cry and urine warms my thighs.
They are not down there to take it on the fly. And even above to stop it in time.
The car right before the weekend. I have nothing to do this weekend. I do not know where to run. Now. The night becomes meaningless. Saturday night it seems the night. The night of the great philosophers, can never be excluded. Or that of Antonioni, misunderstanding and discomfort.
sitting on this corner of the chair, smoking and expect to return my father. That you return my mother. Hospital, police station, morgue, from normal life.
speculate alternative escape routes, the best memories that stick to reprocess, and found again. Counterfactual conditional assumptions and methods which propose solutions.
not always best.
that there was or not.
The other way down do not ever know.
But perhaps it is a duty at least to understand themselves.
I look reflected on the table black, shiny and proud. Andrea
the window I think, looking himself in the glass.
