raining, and I feel like crying. Maybe today I'll go by Feltrinelli, or maybe take the car and I'll go to the cemetery. Or maybe I'll stay home alone, to waste time fixing it to slide on hands every second, as if I had an endless list of things to do. Bedside international newspapers in English left the floor in a messy pile, from time to time I flip through one, and I take the discomfort ... We are an enigma that leaves stunned and horrified, we are the laughing stock. Chaos reigns in this room. Objects if they are stacked here and there, no way. Inside the chest I got something like a little melancholy candle, lit ... slowly burning all the oxygen, and leaves me breathless. On Monday, gray and sad on the verge of tears will be hard to die, even though I I try to grab the right weapons. There is a possibility that my vocation is about finding new ways to be unhappy. The upbeat music Today is not allowed. The worst thing is that there is a reason. Metereopatica are, yes, and it is stupid. But there must be a key, and perhaps that is the same engine that moves my constant anger and silent, that I can not tell anybody. Last night the picture of you as a child, a madman's eyes and happy smile, and today are nothing, so just be longing for you. Today you are: dead .
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