today from the windows of my study American see only clouds. Throw a light breeze from the ground so I feel safe from the idiot of the ham. The marine environment for today if they stay away from my little village di provincia sul finire della campagna e sull'inizio del mare. Si sente solo il profumo della pioggia e il frenire di alcuni pioppi in lontananza. Le mie moto mi guardano languidamente e, se non sapessi che non hanno motilità facciale, giurerei che mi stanno implorando di uscire. 1600 centimetri cubi e 200 cavalli in due, ognuna col suo carattere, pregi e difetti.
Vive a modo loro.
Viene da usare un linguaggio scurrile e violento per descriverle, quando il culo appoggia sulle loro selle e il feeling aumenta e cresce in maniera smisurata dopo le prime curve, non se ne può fare a meno; si sente la necessità di far emergere la loro indole.
Una più pacata, timida, che va stuzzicata, presa per mano e allungata in alto dove il motore becomes a growl and a gear change becomes a rap that you hear on the foot and stretches the legs of the front fork ...
's always other bad, angry, rude, which in turn calls always three things: gas, butt out and almost touching the knee open' asphalt that makes you always wonder if you're driving on the street or track.
are small fragments of memory, chips are crazy for spending days in the hills between the hairpin bend and a bend in the middle.
are memories.
The vessels of life, where all the flowers that shine day we ragalano, are also filled with these things. Are liquid, like water, keep cut flowers, those flowers that remain in whatever happens.
These are memories that are adapted to the container, fluid, filling all the interstices of the soul.
... memories ....
In these days where a light rain smooths, flattens and plane, the clouds envelop the sky and the drugs do not look like rain, are not doing their "job" takes the value of all memory, a binary code that runs in front of your eyes, overlay on the screen and you realize that the horses of the PC may not look like the horses of the beast is watching you. E 'strong' s instinct to open the door and turn it in the middle of the wind, rain, the lightning and thunder, to hear him, if only for a split second, that place where it seems to come: a circle of hell.
But it's all a memory superimposed translucent.
Reality is a chair, the drugs, the ants in the feet and hips that seem to explode.
A punch that does not care that there is under your skin, you line the body, with scarring and contempt.
from the groin to the knee, and back, via the skin, by all that's inside (cited Marco Paolini from "Vajont-October 9, 1963 note)
but open your eyes, look down and everything is still in its place.
's just the constant reminder of' the other day where the sun was shining and it could be the last.
the next post.
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