August 8, 2010 August 30, 2009
Enzo Favata takes me into a kind of hot abyss in which only part of a sun enters this empty house, and the other half of the house sounds an alarm that I would record and reproduce the owners of the dwelling for which he plays.
There is no escape. I speak without crying and then I cry when I stop talking. I come here in August and is not a coincidence that I maintain that the month of August is always a crap.
Should I get back to read without using the brain. I had to use the afternoon for one of those long hot showers that you raise from the ground and it will end up not at all.
Here there are no people. Not missing, but there is none. Not there are people who say something is worth, there's people who deserve my respect.
taken as a nut, open, eat, spit, and then singled out and accused of being left to clean the floor.
What kind of people are you? But that shit in the world you live? But you do not know how to pitch? But no one taught you how to love people, all, all of them, even those who do not know?
But keep in mind? The dignity you have it stuck in the ass? The honesty you remove the ears with the wax in the morning?
What I look for? What are you laughing? What are you laughing? Do you think I smile at you? I
in there are dead man walking. No longer exists. I'm already gone, though I see. I smile to everyone and joking with everyone to be able to ride out the day. But there is no one, inside of me that wants to get in touch with any of you.
But that makes spoken to 'talk to
What does' Here
acquired influence there is only shame.
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