I'm tired. Esco
rarely, and when I leave I bitterly regret having done so. I like to watch the others, I need to write. But it describes as nothing? Because this is what I see when I go out. Faces that communicate nothing. A crowd of people painted in false colors, masks to hide the true face.
A girl dancing excitedly jumping on the spot at the sound of music that lends itself to this dance. His companion copy, but inside is embarrassed and thinks, 'Look, I have to do to remedy a fuck. "
unknown directors and actors who call themselves great. Then Rome is famous for this, it's almost a virus. 'In Rome, I know all phenomena' someone said, with good reason.
's so hard to be yourself? Exit without veils? Show a little humility?
Those few who do so only as its own light shine, in the midst of a sickly dark mud. It only remains, as I do now in this dark room.
I'm tired.
My face is falling apart under the blows of scalpels and injections. I collect them and try in vain to reassemble the puzzle. Do not recognize myself in the mirror. Stranger to myself. I have so many scars, which are ready for a possible film sui pirati. Non ho bisogno di trucco vado bene così, nature.
Ho freddo. L’inverno mi sta già penetrando nelle ossa, ancor prima che arrivi. Sono completamente coperto dal piumino, esce solo il braccio per scrivere.
Propongo una mozione di sfiducia al freddo, spostiamo l’Italia più a sud. Vicino all’equatore. Con tutte le cazzate che sento, una in più non fa niente...
Abbasso il periscopio e m’immergo nel piumino. Che ci faccio qui?
Buonanotte.
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