The emptiness that surrounds me and that I surround me is slowly eroding, to the bone. Piles of clothes slap in a suitcase in bulk piles of inconsistent thoughts, heaps of days without a name, without time, without teleology. The days are lit cigarettes as if for a windy day and forgotten in the ashtray. We leave to smoke in a hurry, leaving no other trace that consume the ashes, and when we realize that is over, you realize that, we wanted to draw the smoke, and then a strange way to turn on automatic nor another. The night I turn around in bed trying to sleep and trying to drive out that crowd noise must do to my head. There is a cloud in the sky chasing its tail, but we can not see it, if we raise the eyes perceive only a single blanket, various shades of gray. E 'in October now and I should be within the hinges, I think of my degree, I think the exams, I should think of something, and instead I drag between the foreground and the steps of the door, a detuning between the brain and the next cigarette. There is something wrong in the air, there is something wrong with me. E 'weakness? E 'apraxia? It 's a phase? It 's a trend? E 'in the wake of an airplane in the sky at sunset or the Water furrow in the stone?
The wedge boots resound on the deserted streets in this town I see many faces and no soul. In the evening the streets are empty and remain alone with the sound of my footsteps, with the tobacco Squeeze and improvised and inconsistent with a thousand thoughts that overlap each other without coming to light perception, and squeal as the fork scraping the bottom of the pot.
This time it is not even the loneliness that I suffer, but I feel abandoned by myself, as if I was not there already over and I had become a tired body that drags here and there, no more nor a conscience nor a unconscious but accompanied only superegotica by an instance that is breathing down his neck and remains unheard. It 's like to be partisan at the same time, allied and Waffen-SS, like being my own worst enemy and how he no longer even the will to fight. A TV is not tuned, millions of gray lines that dance on the screen, trembling, vibrating, screaming deafening in their silence that the tragedy of their lives.
Beyond the trial, beyond hypocrisy, beyond the sarcasm, beyond grotesque, beyond tragedy, beyond the myth, beyond the real thing can exist? Around me I see only the raddled cliché in their homes, prisoners its stereotype, convinced of their uniqueness and I get a grin on his face sarcastic. I've lost the superstructure for a while, and this destabilized me at the beginning. The adolescent process makes everyone feel special and unique in their own ridiculous approval, but approval creates membership. Dona identity artificial, fictitious, but perceived by the individual as very solid. When I gradually got rid of me from all those cards that m'abitavano, I started to know me, to like and rely on myself. Not without a feeling snobbish, not free from pressures superomistico I started my way, clearing, demolishing, bombing, to build myself. The difficulties and misfortunes that have nominees were many and terrible, the tears burst like bombs forgotten hysterical and uncontrollable crying, not at all liberating, absolutely necessary. Assertion and repression of anything in and out of me oppose the inexorable power of this new self. Maybe I have not breathed for too long, maybe I just have to catch my breath, for repulsed headlong into my life in my duties and my pleasures, because those seem to be inherently biodegradable.
raining outside, then the sun comes back, then begins to rain, the fall is consistent with the alternating moments of joy and happiness and others of absolute heaviness, gasping like a fish in water, moving convulsively his mouth, but without saying anything. The banality makes me a thick nausea, spleen pulp me tachycardia and my heart beats out of rhythm, I miss my neurosis, I miss the object of my anxiety, I miss the consistency of my days, I miss the fact . Smell of gas.
The taste of whiskey, rough and edgy over me mouth, along with meaningless phrases, along with countless litanies recited for automation. When I get distracted, if not start arguments that inevitably remain incomplete, began singing the Dies Irae of Mozart, even without realizing it, and then I run and listen to the requiem, and for a moment I'm still alive.
The wedge boots resound on the deserted streets in this town I see many faces and no soul. In the evening the streets are empty and remain alone with the sound of my footsteps, with the tobacco Squeeze and improvised and inconsistent with a thousand thoughts that overlap each other without coming to light perception, and squeal as the fork scraping the bottom of the pot.
This time it is not even the loneliness that I suffer, but I feel abandoned by myself, as if I was not there already over and I had become a tired body that drags here and there, no more nor a conscience nor a unconscious but accompanied only superegotica by an instance that is breathing down his neck and remains unheard. It 's like to be partisan at the same time, allied and Waffen-SS, like being my own worst enemy and how he no longer even the will to fight. A TV is not tuned, millions of gray lines that dance on the screen, trembling, vibrating, screaming deafening in their silence that the tragedy of their lives.
Beyond the trial, beyond hypocrisy, beyond the sarcasm, beyond grotesque, beyond tragedy, beyond the myth, beyond the real thing can exist? Around me I see only the raddled cliché in their homes, prisoners its stereotype, convinced of their uniqueness and I get a grin on his face sarcastic. I've lost the superstructure for a while, and this destabilized me at the beginning. The adolescent process makes everyone feel special and unique in their own ridiculous approval, but approval creates membership. Dona identity artificial, fictitious, but perceived by the individual as very solid. When I gradually got rid of me from all those cards that m'abitavano, I started to know me, to like and rely on myself. Not without a feeling snobbish, not free from pressures superomistico I started my way, clearing, demolishing, bombing, to build myself. The difficulties and misfortunes that have nominees were many and terrible, the tears burst like bombs forgotten hysterical and uncontrollable crying, not at all liberating, absolutely necessary. Assertion and repression of anything in and out of me oppose the inexorable power of this new self. Maybe I have not breathed for too long, maybe I just have to catch my breath, for repulsed headlong into my life in my duties and my pleasures, because those seem to be inherently biodegradable.
raining outside, then the sun comes back, then begins to rain, the fall is consistent with the alternating moments of joy and happiness and others of absolute heaviness, gasping like a fish in water, moving convulsively his mouth, but without saying anything. The banality makes me a thick nausea, spleen pulp me tachycardia and my heart beats out of rhythm, I miss my neurosis, I miss the object of my anxiety, I miss the consistency of my days, I miss the fact . Smell of gas.
The taste of whiskey, rough and edgy over me mouth, along with meaningless phrases, along with countless litanies recited for automation. When I get distracted, if not start arguments that inevitably remain incomplete, began singing the Dies Irae of Mozart, even without realizing it, and then I run and listen to the requiem, and for a moment I'm still alive.
But the sickness is Drowned by cries for more Pray to God
make it quick - watch HIM fall
make it quick - watch HIM fall
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