The attic is burning, my dear fucking beached,
not find peace even in the darkness of the closet, it seems that the heat of these days, has decided to concentrate on cooking the balls roof that could leave in peace.
This morning I went out, you know how much I hate everything that is out, but this morning there was no alternative and the only mirage on my horizon that lay ahead was the old church. Probably from the top of your culture's technological fuck you mentioned, but why do not you buy an air conditioner? If there are no air conditioners in a stifling, my dear professors.
The old churches are ideal for those who suffocates entering the door of the churchyard, the coolness welcomes you with a nice hug, while the hot weather in July is still perched on your shoulders. Your eyes are trying to get used to the darkness, while the thick walls and cool you blow on him all the pleasant cool of their years. I have not noticed if there were other people in the aisles, platoons of candles paid homage to the saints who do not know, silence all around.
I supported my old ass on one of the last schools in the fund, not the last, too close to the exit and then to the heat source, but towards the bottom, with the hand I spent the end of the bench where, with fingers I found what I thought, small mounds hard and stuck here and there, the butts of those who reach the putting stroke, the ignorant man knows no age or pestilence. Names and phrases on the support front engraved with the keys to the house of some kind of time. As my temperature returned to lower my Tasks view ever wider sweeps. Suddenly I realized that I was not alone: \u200b\u200ban old man with a beard and hair a bit 'long look at me strange, the feeling of knowing him at odds with the certainty of a name that I did not know. His clothes of my oldest and anonymous, does not let provenance could be anyone, "Good morning, she here?" Cortese and polite I had already broken the balls, "not I want to talk, but only cool, be patient let me breathe in peace! "" Sure, I'm sorry, I was just trying to make conversation "silence. ".. Look my son knows, Sunday is to me" nice place to meet a child I thought, it seemed as excited as one of those old guys that Sunday waiting anxiously at the door of the home, hoping to see someone go from the driveway, Then comes the evening and did not come a fucking nobody smiled. "Your son will not," I said, "do not wait if they go" today is a stramaledettissima Sunday in July, will be one of those cars with air conditioning ready to go in a beach packed with people, beer, music and costumes with her tits out "" .. give me a straight, go home and rest "I was a bastard, but it was the plain truth. He smiled.
"You know what it took to build this church, my friend? Almost thirty-something, the people of this country has built with the sweat and all his savings, the opening day was too small to hold everyone, "now just me, him, and his melancholy and my hot fucking. As she spoke I seemed to hear the walls bear him out as happens when an old inn recalls an anecdote of village life and all the other toothless to say, I remember it, ah bei those times, and then down to trump. Suddenly not heard it over and figured a priest preaching to empty pews, candles lit, I imagined those who gave sweat and toil to build the church, who painted the frescoes, who sew the altar cloth. Now only I and a poorly dressed old man to dream of a beach full of boobs and butts.
"go home, his son will not be my friend, and I'm too bastard pertener to a company like you in a while 'I'm leaving too," smiled and gave me his hand. Between the folds of her old pain of his wounds. "I look," he said confidently, "your son has already crucified a long time my friend," I said, "and will rise no more "there was a refreshing burst of laughter that echoes in the cool of the aisle, nodding his head said," Well, at least one child I did, I'll wait. You have children Storyteller? "
" not yet "
" Believe me, wait '
time it rains, the heat is going to take a bath on the beach, looking at two uli and a pair of tits, giving way to the most beautiful time , I have no umbrella and my tears mingle with the rain. Rain is the caress of God someone said. If you burn inside, try to sit in the pews empty in July and wait, the heat passes. A Storyteller
soon
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