Warning: The following letter is dedicated to my dear friend. Most guessing who it is without too much trouble, if you're easy to type scandal, please move on.
Dear Friend,
is all we know, you and me. A lifetime, really. And we were always together you and me. We know all the 'a' s more, every moment we shared. Together we spent the dark years of 'adolescence, where c' was just me and you, as always for joining together the splendor of maturity that has seen, with mixed success, participate in some cool games to our friends.
You know, do everything, so I have already done for you. For you I go out, go dancing, I entertain for you at times I get drunk, not too much because of you the 'alcohol once in the head.
yet, dear friend, sometimes I have the 'impression that they understand you completely. Sometimes I have the 'impression not only that you're not exactly a top, but I even rowing against.
We both know that a number of shit (and when ever been more appropriate word) that I did in life were for the most part your responsibility.
Because you're done that, you have a limited ability to reason, little desire to look to the future, little interest in the consequences of your desires.
But you see, dear friend, I continue to always give you straight, and finally, I admit, your advice has been valuable. But not always.
See, you knew that last night I was tired, I was not of the 'right mood (such as the analysis will be gone? Be able to start with the' experiment? Beppe Grillo really become secretary of the PD?), I was not in the mood, say, for a party. And you too, dear friend, was hesitant, you'll have noticed. Home
c 'was not only the carer but also her brother, and she was not enthusiastic about the' idea. Despite this, my friend, I felt that you produced [sic] in a certain direction, and I've gone along. I insisted. And she rose. And everything seemed to go just fine.
So tell me, dear friend, I ask, without rancor, because at some point you have lost interest in it? Why did you miss, lost in your thoughts, and without any desire to socialize, something that you love to do more generally?
But above all, my dear friend, but you could not have thought of that before? Get this: you and I would have been spared fatigue 's insistence to make it go up, a figure of shit, and we would have won at least one hour of extra sleep! This
you wanted to say: Next time, before you ask me something, think better.
With affection I embrace (that is to say, that would be an exaggeration) and I remain your faithful friend
Belphagor
REFLECTION WITH BROTHER HOME:
envy (in a good way, mind you) 's current story 'My brother is living love. And not because she is a beautiful girl (it is) or because they are very much in love (they are), but what brought them together. That is, the iron and adamantine loyalty my brother his dream to conquer it. A year of pain and suffering, borne with stoic determination to achieve what he has now, and it deserves at all. My brother, who has never read Kundera, who does not listen to the Cure, who does not know what a poem 'love is a hundred million times more romantic than me, with my bells and whistles to be romantic, my books Kundera My Cure (sorry Robert) and my poems' love. I realize looking at it, and looking at him with a little film of 'teenage love (which in fact is very well done and I recommend the heart, "Adventureland") which of the two is what he believes in' love, that though a blonde a lot nicer (I can think of a American expression not so fine that says "a fucking A") would like to eat it, remains faithful to his girlfriend and her dream, one that pines for the distance, what he loves, maybe with a capital L (however, it is obvious , his age is). If I were him, the blonde would have been transferred to the slightest hint.
do not know why, I think partly it is because of my deep sense of inadequacy, that makes me crazy about any woman showing interest in me, because sometimes it seems a miracle that a woman try to interest me.
"Or maybe this is not the problem, and everyone lives within its self-interest, dressed in sophistry," sang the Gucci "Song of Night # 2", and what I try to do is hide a simple and also quite prosaic weakness of the flesh behind a veil of excuses from naive psychology.
Or maybe it's the heat, or maybe it's the wrong evening.
Vallo know.
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