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The patch spray

I am 5 am I think. I woke up from one of the dreams that I do not exist at this time.
not get out of bed seems like a compromise to not feel tired.
I open my eyes on the window, and I'm there ...
They gave me the name of something beautiful ...
I look to change color and clear ... it is born ... and ironically when I was little, I wanted to become a midwife, who knows if the idea came to me, seeing me come after a sleepless night. The midwife Alba.

The nice thing about watching the sunrise is the perception of time passing. Reassures me. It 'an incredible sweetness. E 'right now that I think perhaps this name suits me much.
reassures me, black, blue, lighter blue, violet, indigo, pink and then light. All
the silence she wakes up, and the birds are called one after another, from tree to tree, and the rustling of the plants and the earth ... It 's all slow, but not much.

And then the sound for a moment that breaks everything. Damn
rail.
wound is a wound. I
diverted elsewhere.
I think back to the book yesterday and its cry of anger, think of me and I get this sentence from the lips: I am a patch


spray that creates an invisible protective
on a wound until it has healed
after that .. . is taken away, crumpled and thrown away.

A patch spray made to not be noticed much, not to bother, why do his duty and then discarded.
As another day comes. Dawn does his duty and go ...
Lasting "a little bit." The duration of an injury "a little bit deeper." Change

thought.
Maybe the pickup of garbage collectors aka ecological operators. I feel
load the box and then go away. And I think the patch
spray thrown. And a phrase comes to mind: In

garbage are the most intimate things a person to understand.
not remember if it is a quote from a movie, an episode of x-files or Lieutenant Colombo. But it is true. But now there's the

collection.

If before we throw it all in one place.

A place to gather the scraps of every human family. Eating habits, regular readings, mail rejected, the bad things hidden deep in my bag because it may never be found ...

Now there's recycling.

And each man stands in front of their ghosts. Forced to choose their end. The right one.
And everything is divided, and the sensation of understanding humanity through the things we throw away, no longer exists.
E 'depersonalized.
E 'approved and differentiated. And we are all equal.

I wonder what the box just for a patch spray.
I wonder if I could choose where I want to be thrown.

And among all the bins are colored ... I would be thrown in a dumpster for bulky things. One of those without cover. .. Dawn air and light.
And 'the only bin in which there exists the hope that someone will recover. What then
unfounded and just a hope. But things thrown there, last longer.
And I do not mind having the least hope.
Just for the feeling of "free space" left on the person who throws it away. If only for that feeling, to know even just a moment, I was a space that did not pass unnoticed. I turn

into my bag. In my portfolio I have thrown a burden, that I have recovered. Many many years ago. 10 years.
There is a photograph of a man who looks like a woman.

The photographs are a huge footprint. There

him in there next to my ID.
It 's my space freed, rescued from abandonment. That nobody wanted. Except me.

And then the support on my scars and smile.
I am a bit 'already healed.
And now there is light for today. And I'm glad that in 10 years quell'ingombro I have never weighed.

He is, in my identity card, I offer a bit of mine. Identity that in 10 years, and maybe even before, he never had.


And now I get up in the plastic bag of coffee
The bottom of the coffee plants.

Good morning to all patches spray.

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Castelli di Rabbia

use the blog for reminding some parts of a book that shocked me the day:

\u0026lt;\u0026lt;The had entered into his eyes, those two images, such as the instantaneous perception of absolute happiness and unconditional. If
would carry for ever.
Why is it that you care, life.
you seize the soul when you're still asleep and you sowing into an image, or smell, or a sound that then do not you take away more.
And that there was happiness.
I discover later, when it's too late.
And now you are, forever, an exile: a thousand miles away from that image, by the sound, by smell.



But the secret was that the treasure was always the same.
They changed the boxes but he was always the same.
It started with the man, remained with him wherever he went, he spent a suitcase in a suitcase, from city to city and back.
came from the hands of the woman and returned there, just as the clock back into the hands of the Admiral.
People believed it was a gift, a precious gift for each flight. Instead
was what kept the thread of their love, in the labyrinth of worlds in which the man ran, like a crack along a vessel.
was the clock that counted the minutes of the time normally, and only one, which was the time of their wanting.
turn back before him because she knew that was coming in who had not broken the thread of that time.
So the man came, finally, and there was no need to say anything, claim anything, not to know.
The moment when you saw was, for both of us, once again, the same moment). ... valuable as a secret, like a precious jewel - a clock that kept the train together, which took London and Dublin related to each other so that they do not vanish at the drift of a babel of time and hours differentiquesto suggests - suggests that yes - this makes you think.


At the precise moment when the silence returned understood to have absolute certainty: that there was no note.

what is beautiful in life there is always a secret ...
for me it was so ... the things you know are normal things or bad things, but then there are secrets, and that's where you go to hide the happiness ...

All you have broken glass bowls were just life ... are not those errors ... that's life .... and real life maybe is the one that breaks, the life out of a hundred that eventually breaks ........ I make this my understanding, that the world is full of people running in your pocket with its small glass marbles ... its sad little balls unbreakable ... and then you never stop blowing into your crystal balls ... are nice, I liked looking at them, for as long as you have been close ... see you in so much stuff ... is something that puts you on the fun ... never stop ... and if one day life will break out also that, in its way ... wonderful life.

And all this - everything - to soak in the silence.
If you are able to imagine it, we must imagine so.
An infinite silence. Not for
other: it is always some wonderful silence that gives life to the tiny or huge roar of what was to become irremovable memory.

There is the horrible and wonderful.
would not be anything if they did not had to face the infinite.
>>

Alessandro B.
-
D. Alba
Madness - more or less -

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Cur ... The time goes wounds

Everything is a comfort curve.

The keystones, arches, cats curled ...

circles and curves.

The wounds do not care but bend. They adapt to an uncomfortable reminder, turn around something that no longer exists.

are fattened for a few pounds

This will be the thought of today.