Getting stuck in traffic of love of others Heaven Some thoughts after dinner The wind that precedes

I walked by Paolo Fabbri. Passing the 43, an unexpected sadness sweet. Airline passed every five to ten minutes on my head: the sky seemed a highway with little traffic but immensely more noisy and blue. I read and I looked up. Nothing else. Then tonight I was smoking a cigarette at the window. In the dark sky and bare, without stars, den led wandered two lights wandering and intermittent: other aircraft, but invisible and distant time. I dreamed of routes uncertain and explosions den led in flight, of love stories that were born between the hostess and passengers more casual; I thought that America would be easier to get to, sooner or later. Origliavo birds hidden among the trees at the park. I scanned a couple sitting on the bench. With the thought spronavo the boy from dark T-shirt: "Come on, kiss her!". Embraced floor, he brushed her hair, her nose seemed to play between the mustache of him and finally smiled. At the climax distoglievo den led eyes and went back to my Proust. I came home for dinner and I thought that the Stoics were fools if they really thought that you could live with one simple oil per day for every day of a lifetime. Perhaps the friendship should not be underestimated. Or maybe it's just a strange time and pass away, fly away like those supersonic aircraft, like the birds in the leaves, as the leaves den led themselves now that it's fall, as all the faces of passers-by which fleeting exchange knowing looks along the avenues infinite.
Getting stuck in traffic of love of others Heaven Some thoughts after dinner The wind that precedes the Chiacchiere Sleep in Silence At bride dressed in white No yellow umbrella horizon The only real nostalgia I Truth in three acts back to live alone
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Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish - a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate Who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow - to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey, and drive fast on empty streets den led with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested ... Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.