Funny Things To Write About

The rain and the years go by.

Then I think back to Trieste and its way down full of work in progress. At the kick drum roll merrily and I see that I'm going to take about thirty feet below. At the kick drum and my liver and my mother when I talk of the time. The rain and the years go by. To ask whether they are born before some bar or the people who drink in thirty years. While telling me of a poker hand of twenty-five years ago, four kings against a royal flush and the ability to go home with a home anymore. And I'll tell you about five years ago when I did not have even that bit of, say, fill material for them to weep eat sleep diapers. Produce consumed crack.
Change register, write in folders forty five minutes after you wrote for forty days you have five rows and three deleted and you've thought a bit 'and then you leave her not to feel too useless. To say that we write to the computer because we are unaccustomed to using the pen and after two minutes the cramps start to come to hand. And generally we have a spelling too indecent that sometimes even we do not understand what we've written. Then end up on the most beautiful leaves, and then begin to write anywhere, even in the corners of the streets and once I finished a sentence, making their arms.
you tell me I see a little 'airhead lately maybe you're doing a little' too and I'll say what the fuck you say and while I forget where you live, and meanwhile the bicycles parked Shot down, and while it's something that I think so.
must be free and democratic and speeches Pertini worth more than a flag attached to the back to celebrate a birthday that we do not hear us. How to celebrate forty years even if you would like to turn off in less than fifteen candles. We must understand when your breath when you are too rhythmic and relief but I can not touch. When I greet you but you're watching.
Like when I phone to ask how it went from nine in the evening because the evening at nine o'clock in the morning you say you have a little lapse of memory.
And all my seem to you that a phone busy. Why
we are so good at evading the bouncers and managers to disappoint, but fifteen euro is too much for a tribute and to avoid cigarettes that pull me back. So we met and she does not believe it and instead you remember I was one shaves full of dreams of glory. But now it says that they are naughty and then my opinion should not be underestimated. Then I think back to my
cachet ridiculous when we played for twenty euro, existed when the resale price of tickets, Vigevano when we remember that we no longer see someone from twenty years but perhaps still lives here. When we are too identical to those ideals that seem certain books defeated by Wu Ming.
When I dreamed I was me and Fiorenzo dell'Estragon on stage and had jammed with the smoke machine and it seemed to be in an autumn afternoon in the countryside behind the salaprove. And the piece ended and there were four old men sitting on four chairs in the middle of the empty room. What we clapped and asked us for an encore. Do you think that I have not had the courage to tell anyone and then I wrote here.
here that within a couple of minutes we are at Rovigo and a little 'take me wrong.
And I finished the paper.

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Annarella.

will be that what we cooked tonight at four, rather than a snack dinner seemed a failure, which is now the sky is white on the roofs of houses and a white sky does not promise never anything too positive, will be cigarette butts abandoned in the ashtray in the living room. Will be our endless conversations on the mood and the anxiety states. It will be the coffee that heats the veins and mixes them with the words that we can not tell us, the words and concepts we have in mind and which do not want it out by following any logic. Calexico and discussions will be the series if it came first the chicken or the egg, and if we feel more for the specific material to be fried or domestic birds. Or simply be seen as if things in the world today, if only crack head can be an acceptable solution, that's what comes out we will deal with quiet, then.
will be your guides for sports or the Vodafone asking me unique business and offered to return in ten years I have never offered, or even better than hours spent arguing until the traffic light turns green and we start again. To get lost in the countryside still asleep for those troubled streets who may not even have a name. What should we give it to him. In the streets of a city swept by wind and sea, to calculate how large a block would be and how many there might be isolated from an x-point y, then we are. In my heart there are several blocks and a highway that runs through it with you as always looking a little 'around that seems to be the last to follow the track of your thoughts with me that without me you know it on the shore seat, which is not never know. Even if I trust that the time has close and nothing has been lost, never, and all that we have collected with their eyes, we have put in boxes well wrapped, decorated with pages torn from an old book and dipped in tea, to make it look even older.
Tell me, is not it? With that in your dreams Annarella stops being just a song and becomes a kind of consecration, a handover. Maybe because it is so easy to play. And tell me, especially if it is the fault of the years are slipping over or is it our fault that we do not pay too much attention. The revolution, love, revolution, the storming of the Bastille, we are the revolution, with no reported Print without saying that we need to see better and see each other before the others. We simply take to the streets to embrace amid the noise of gunfire, in that white sky that promises what he has promised. At best, here is full of arcades, to catch his breath.

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And all those things we do not have that.

I saw you sitting in the one car even before searching un'obliteratrice running throughout the station to throw the cigarette between the tracks and get on the train. And I know that you've agreed, too, who was beyond the window. They were years that saw you. We wanted to make our roads and more unhealthy. It 's been more than five years, now that we are close to five and then so we can count. After all, there was a time when counting the cachet of the concerts in the tiles. And just for the time that has passed, all those threads that we cut setting fire to the books of greek and earth sciences, I found myself sitting in the row next to you, with you in the usual posture as a young man terribly old, legs planted, her body slightly forward. As odious as the posture that I took myself, more resigned, less of a blowhard time, or maybe more. And give us an account of these five years abundant lightning, to find, well without understanding why, that in our separate ways at certain fords were both finished with the calves in water. Us we brought along and inside of what we have marked both, even if we had not caught when we told her, pushed in to force. And all those things we do not have that, especially. So change the station and found the coincidences, I find your blood pressure for the things most of habit, you'll have a think about when there is reason to bear it, but things seem to be forgotten in a dusty attic and found too much to attribute any value yet. While distances are shortened to the next station. Rather than hope and mutual self-proclaimed fortune, make me details on where the Coke, and that despite years of obstinate sinners should redeem themselves and some other sugar water, and we shake hands ceremonial in that tone that only a few years ago we thought it was the inescapable mark of old age and instead you feel that the move is final. That tile first say a manly handshake. And then, after all, we all know you have always been old.
Coming home took the bus all the holes from the two towers to Mazzini, and I find that the sun comes much later when I would have thought. I smile.
There are empty bottles of Coke anywhere, on the kitchen table, sofa, in a bathroom. I laugh. I light a cigarette.
laugh louder when I find the last to separate the vinyl from the cd.
say that sometimes I should remove the VAT to the things that happen to me to be able to see them a bit 'better, not to try to build around a pyramid with the cards just for the sake of pulling them out of the box. Then wait for your footsteps on the stairs, while the empty bottles and an unexplained tennis ball I killed time for a while '. I never thought that apartment suitable for bowling. That is a particular practice, no doubt. Which then also spoke Moltheni, when one exists.

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Because as you said or the way you are now or might as well not even put it.

Maybe it is high time to take pen in hand and the white sheets. And to take measures to neighborhoods like you who designs homes that are missing on the maps. Draw a smiley face that goes beyond the Friday night frozen by the wind over the windows Rates and ran to the station. Maybe I missed something, some heart, some connection. But I made a little road and then will be around here.

Believe me it's tough.

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Our shadows under the arches with the sun and by bus. I've always dreamed of taking a bus crossed out, you told me. There are endless laps of the best assembly that others would call Bakeries, parallel lives and tell us to imagine that if you stop everything so at least we would still smiles. Running as a normal people in crowded markets. Nothing dirty mattresses, we have changed the linens, we opened the windows, we have fixed angles, this precarious existence seems to have become a fad rather than a status change, we had lists of things to improve mileage. And we still lose between landscapes of the countryside all the same, the fog surrounding us and only the endless sull'A4 accidents, including deaths that mobile phones will still be dead in three days and will be replaced. Without build on ancient legends even though they have had, say, a certain social utility.

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MANDELLO

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time.

Then tell me that there will be longer. Not even here what we manage, including a trip to another. We should take a photo, the weather. We should shoot them now, to remember in twenty years. When all this is over and the barons are gone. When teachers respond to mail us. When will try again every day and yet every day there will weigh. When we no longer cold.

And then there will be something else to complain about, there will be another battle, another book banned, another scandal. Juventus worst luck that this will mean just stop wasting time to hope that everything returns to normal. Because this is the tragedy of Juventus, the idea that what is happening is a parenthesis, as that will pass the winters. That the Inter-called phenomena will return to buy the South American qualifying for a peaceful Europe Leaugue. We will return to rejoice over the goals of a true striker, who will give the team the next world, not that piece by piece we buy the team that won them five years ago. This is the drama, the idea that there will be a different time, that things will return to flow naturally.

We should shoot them now, to see us in twenty years. Maybe I will grow a beard, and someone will let physiologically.

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Evening on Karl Johan.

Like Munch's paintings always have something that jars. A tree face a mustache. Like us. And our clocks at unreasonable hours for trips out of town Sunday morning. Like Munch's paintings and those wild eyes, and forty-seven posts per minute that are exchanged to complain a bit '. How things stand and to the extent that things are not as we would like. As we enter into the mist coats and you faint in the car for an hour.

We found the room of Napoleon and the giant fish, stopping between the paintings abandoned by all other visitors. That sometimes we pass from one room and one and a little 'pretend not to know a little' we embrace.

Art is the blood of his heart Munch said.

not talk about ropes in the house of you say.

I do not say anything and to step up the night with eyes wide open. For now we will call happiness?

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returns.

Saturday, January 8, 2011, afternoon.

city of Rovigo that shit. Forget about it here because the only train deleted from this Pontelungo of epiphanies on Thursday is that regional wrong limps towards Chioggia. The departures board do not mind, oblivious of Chioggia and the railcar, which could also remove it completely, so to avoid the weight of the illusion of being there almost there, at home. The red brick station the same as many other Italian cities, the same as that of Ferrara, to that of Arezzo. But here too many times I got stuck there, just that the bar is also closed Saturday. Work slowly, do not work. That comes from going crazy with the iPod and exhaust 54 Wu Ming, who read for five hours straight would be too humanely even if the book is yet another lady, and key internet dried up tomorrow, and you who on the phone telling me that I could control, like the first train I take in my life, and then the echo of my porcodio bounce back up to the underpass.

red bricks with his head down and walked under a white sky, like when the jokes come and live here, which is halfway between Rovigo all places where we could go, so that the half-way station is far from everything and everyone, a faded monument flood of '51, a Chinese man shouting and yawning sitting next to me, a tree made of bare and leafless trees destroyed sidewalks and uneven. On the benches of the avenue are knots of Romanian drink beer fifth choice, dressed in gray and brown. It seems to be forgotten in a few cities in Eastern god, one more bad Zilina, where the difference is the sign that would have led to Odessa, but here more than we could end up rotting in Anguillara. Submarine is not that original. In the background a church that seems made of bricks with the same station, or vice versa, at the end of the avenue. Around, really, nothing. Maybe we are wrong but the clearing of Church looks like a garage for buses. Rovigo city of shit. Claudia does blowjob ten euro, so they write on faded billboards, there are A4 hanging from some girl in love with the 30 Second To Mars on buses from tack to go and see them in concert, in a clearing of the old burn something to judge black smoke from the wood did not appear.

banknotes in his pocket I cut too big even for junk food vending machines, so the only thing I can swallow with a small change in the coat is kinderdelice , and The hurt done in a hurry this morning. What yesterday was still a chemical, which has returned Marcella yesterday and it was a pleasure discover that you still know how to open the second gate with intercom entry. And we discovered the magic of the diaphragm, which we thought were a joke as the new Litfiba, and instead showed that there Federico Fiume enormously knowledgeable longer shaves up all square, including myself. Which arises as a hypertensive and angry for a final failure, which stops at every start to say something that you hear and then hangs up, that certain changes between verse and chorus seem to be modulated with an electric saw. But it seems to be 88, people went crazy, people made up, sounds dark and black crest. And Max Collini. The future smiles on those of us , stamped on the back.

reach the church we can opt for anything on our right and nothing on our left, a distributor and a best western the reflective windows. An old man wrapped up in that bike swerves. Sounds like a joke. It does not seem real. Like when I stop and I sincerely hello and tell me you remember we smoked a cigarette with the concert in Ferrara vasco remember? And for me it's a little 'how to choose whether to go left or right in front of the red brick church. And no, I'm sorry too but I do not think we'll play together again in the near future or maybe in the next few years , mixing truth with small phrases that do not usually say. As if a player were to say things that come out of his head and press dall'addetto his team.

The only bar to cross in front of an abandoned house, is closed. Does not even swear that much we do not hear anyone. Rovigo city of shit, and I'm not people, because of people I've counted more than a dozen. Lord come get me and I think of Fiume and the polite handshake, a bit 'timid a bit' jerky, cigarettes who knows where I'm climbing cycling the bridge of Stalingrad, dodging or 19, or skipping the priority at intersections.

There are no shops, there's nothing, there's just this long path trodden by bus and by non-EU master come and get me, and a dog that rolls on the ground is the most alive I see a couple of hours. As the controller in my car and we had three penalties in four, and as the Chinese who pretended to be dead not to pay. As the controller was going to say something to the effect that he had reversed the validation on my business travel there and back. As the inspectors who stopped in time, while the third received peeled for a guy who could not tell which side was turned. Who controls the controllers, we would have laughed at if I were there too. Adriano is still distant and unnecessarily, if not in space, time interval from now to the next available train.

Rovigo city of shit while the metallic voice of the ad listing all the trains except mine, which is cold to the heart despite all the licking and goodbyes, as the cleats of Felipe Melo on the face of an opponent. As the mother of the macaroni Gandolfi. As the minutes that slow and that this future rather than smiling, grinning.

Fiumani What seems a bit 'Vasco Rossi before he disgraced. What I look like a fool with the mac and sunglasses and the sun going down on the countryside, in a waiting room that is actually three benches placed at random. And yes, the smell of roses is a chemical reaction, and if one day I found out did not love her anymore. And it is dramatically true, that nothing in the void between distributors best western Romanian coach dogs and curses sore throats, I Fucking the bar did not find in one hour and go walking. Rovigo city of shit. And the first Rovigo polemic that passes through here, do not expect more. The shocking thing is

as always you're right, if I controlled, I would be at home already. Rovigo city of shit.

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A bit 'cos I've asked you, a little' because time is passing. A little 'because there is little to tell of the year if they have just left, he left us in a van full of people hallucinating and returns that left us empty those boxes that occupied the first few people care. That has left us with unforgettable weekend and parentheses by sprinkling petrol. A little 'because of things we've done too much and changed millions of lives, just that maybe we were too busy pointing in different directions, between the green monsters and endless travel. We do not like these batteries but these cases the assessment is incomplete. We do not like these cold and trembling with these beds. We do not like the soups we burn because we're still looking out the windows. We dislike those shows, those pedals, those laps drunk bicycle to hit the garage of the house. Do you remember when we walked in the snow and ice doing somersaults to stand? There 's been more or less so, has been that we finished that bottle port and were those days when everything seems finally pigeonholed. And 'way that takes us a bit' wrong even when we walk to the arcade or when we try to line up a disproportionate number of things that we could not stay in line. But this is what we are asked, along with those records that record, together with the reputation of being a jerk who told me I had stopped because it was not true, but now that you're gone they begin to doubt. Like when we get distracted for a moment and then not find the thread. Like when we do not remember a song for months. Like when I needed your hands.