observe the world from the window of the attic,
with these first chill the glasses fog up and give everything that is outside a boundary undefined, a non-identity, not a name. Turning his hand on the glass to be my own sense of cold and wet is not mine, imagining how many particles of spirit who knows how many people should serve to tarnish a glass, to question what is always defined. Now that my wrinkled fingers have scraped off all the steam is clearer, sharper counterstand is filthy, the boundary is well marked, I regret that I have already swept away the fog. Autumn: first blood red, the shades of the banners in revolt, the smoke of tear gas, false ideals, real interests, devastation everywhere, war, fear and chaos, the human decadence at its best, with bright colors everywhere revolt, an omen of death. Autumn: the other side of the leaves red, yellow grass, the white of the first frost, the web of the door glass house, the spider with suitcases in hand, wherever color of silence, the 'inexorable advance of the debt in December, on time, as each winter to demand what they deserve. The blue of the sky, harbinger of death, too, soon only the mantle of snow to give their last respects to the nature of dying. Sitting on the park bench, dressed in faded flowers smiled, her smile seems surreal, observe the enchanted circle of dried roses now braided hair, smiling. Soon he will die, but she smiles. sitting quietly on the bench, his feet bare, the light-colored flowers in summer and the slip covers, all around the leaves fall silent, but he does not care, he smiles. Distant echoes of the uprising, away the daily battles of our ignorance, far cannibalism that governs us. Poor stupid horizon seems to say tear gas, the herringbone sirens in the distance, I die in this fall, you die, but I rigermoglio spring, you do not.
.. I watch the autumns of my fucking attic, powerless, helpless, angry look at them as you look at the wonderful taste of ice cream cone in August, I wonder how it can be so fool the man who mixed the chocolate with lemon. . .. fuck
soon the Storyteller.
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