red stripes on the skin, fingers
signs of burning,
surged.
The salad that I carry around the eyes gives me fresh air, but not enough, does not mask the loneliness.
I lie down and sweat with stripes, I wake up, The warning says 13.27 but it's dark outside. Should be skipped the light. The heart beats irregularly. A moth on the window sill. I turn the fan up and approached him.
If tomorrow they told me who you would not believe. It is not just a matter of definition. The definitions are used to hold the pieces together, not to be afraid. This restlessness as electricity passes through me uncontrollably. Maybe too intense.
If you could see beyond it, if I could do the same.
the corner of my grandmother's living room, between the wall and the belief that it is now home to my mother, my father kept the pail brumeggio and things for fishing. My grandmother complained about the stench.
I have a place for me as the one for the bucket. Sure cool and dry. With a specific smell, unmistakable.
I wish I had a bucket full of brumeggio on which to sit down and draw one thousand colorful fish. Look at the sea that does not stop.
Today the air is fresh, oleander red on the terrace near the placid waves, my eyes are wells. You are inside a glass in the back of a garage.
Tomorrow we'll see.
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