I wanted in my first post post-back (excuse the pun), speaking in Berlin, as I've enjoyed, what he did, I would like to come back tomorrow. But talk of Rome. Or rather, this evening of May in Rome, the first night, this year, it really seemed like summer, or better, that really gives me the impression that the summer is approaching.
E 'mild temperatures, the smells in' air, the very quality of the evening light, it is this that tells me so.
It tells me talking on the ancient heart I have, all that atavistic part of me still, despite everything, lives with the seasons. The cells that detect light in the optic chiasm, el 'stretch of days, the same cells that I share with reptiles.
And as always the stomach turns a bit ', a sweet feeling of sadness comes over me.
It also leads me to write some words' obsolete, as sadness, exactly, or obsolete.
I foolishly thought that the disturbing power of the spring was inextricably linked to disturbances in late adolescence and adoloescenziali.
Yet it seems not to be so. Years passed and every May upsets me a bit '. And nothing changes, nothing changes, but my face in the mirror, and the waist, for the truth.
But the feelings, the feelings are always the same. I regret a bit 'forced sadness grown as a rare plant with beautiful flowers and anesthesia, such as the lotus. The desire of days that never end, and too tired to live them.
Or perhaps it is this empty house, no JJ, for the first time I really feel in five years. The thin diasgio in being alone, and subtle pleasure, half of which is that discomfort is a child.
Or maybe it's just a return to normal life after a break to see her from outside is almost dreamlike.
Or maybe it's just that "a strange night Vivona ghosts and dreams in vain, to give what 'hypochondria well known, then the bottle is empty"
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