The fog of recent days
induces sleep and when I sleep I sail with the imagination, maybe that's why I can not sleep.
The attic is quiet at this time, I hear the voices that usually seem to have subsided and it gives me solievo, means they are good. I observe the invasion the armies of the cold winter towers of smoke rise into the sky drawing strange sculptures, sometimes sinuous bodies of women, sometimes aged tree trunks, the beauty of a cloud is that it is absolutely non-political, we see that each one's cock please.
I have many flaws, oh my God, who never yours, but I have several, the only think I do not have is the envy, I do not know all, I do not care a fuck about anyone, so I was easy and then I always thought that if one has more than I have done something more than what I did, or simply more ass but her ass must earn it.
What I can remember, I found myself envious of only two times in life when every time I talk to my only brother among the hundred thousand that I have, every time I realize I'll never be a wonderful person like him, and the second one of the few times that I left my parents speak with the simple desire to enjoy, I sipped their words like a whiskey aged twenty years in oak barrels, I tasted their story as if gripping one of those glass bubbles where this holy distllato waving with golden hues.
The subject of their story were the usual speeches repeating here: "Do you remember the old Gengiari?" real name Mario, Gengiari was his nickname, such as the humpbacked Fire, the Abstract Fasola and another dozen people who lived a village of 500 souls that was little more than a big family. Asphalt roads, one televisionein one family: one of the old Mary, who had bought and never paid since that time the dealer had come to complain about her money she had broken a broom down the back, a crowd of Children without toys and a tub to wash clothes in the bottom of the country where they socialized and knew all the dicks of others.
Good Gengiari tardone was a little, or perhaps too clever, you could not tell if he loved more women or men. In the evening, when he was drunk became the favorite game of his peers who were waiting for him to go dark for the jokes to wake him dressed as ghosts, to then be chasing for the country, people under the arcades was spun enjoyed the rides and the laughter as if it was going to the Tour of Italy Bartali.
My mother and father who were children at the home of Mary with an army of children to see a television with its black and white gave some color to everyday life in those years. The misery, the shoes with holes in them. On Sunday my grandfather gave them money to buy two half lemon and a piece of licorice to suck until the language was not as black as night, until Sunday was not that good .. I ended up savoring the last sip their story, have kept their eyes bright, their melancholy happy that misery, that have nothing in which it was something to be happy, ciaccole the country, the drunk, the wire, the licorice. God how I tried envy ... the taste in my mouth again I filled his glass again and again I sat fascinated to hear, the culture of the ignorant, the treasure of the simple, the story of how God vecio gengiari ... I tried envy, I hope never die. A Storyteller
soon.
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