See Sister Mastrabate

- the city, you insist on asking.
- but the city where you live?
- each city receives its form from the desert in which he opposes.
.. Italo Calvino ..

photograph you would like so close you can catch every flake of your skin.
Imperfection is a land ...
the lack of program and the lack of perfection of things is what makes them great.
goosebumps seems a starry sky, and I can travel with your fingers. and do not sleep. and I'm awake. I guard your eyes wide clear that move under the eyelids, the rhythm of your dreams. this protects them from biting wind that takes you away.
will hold me until I sleep. Hold
because I'm afraid.
is back in the winter. my scarf, boots rain. and I am almost afraid, night because it is just a dream ... too sweet and seductive to have substance.

was freedom ... and contained all the wide open horizons around
felt a center for me. an almond closed, a vertebra mother answered the island. was not sex or even the brain. but a piece of spine moving wave.
alone and I wonder: I did not become aware of my own I could be there.
think not.
think it takes a person who advises.

. err .. de luca

lying on the past, today everything is in place. he speaks to you of open flowers on your toes for a time. Cruel truth windswept. tell me, is a perfect day?
the beauty of this day has not come back, but every day, if you want, it will be a perfect day.
.. Cristina Donà ..

ost .. Charlotte Sometimes / The Cure
photo .. me / path @ Recale

Beginner Tennis Rackets

there is snow in my memories ...
there's always the snow!
the brain goes blank and I
if not stop reminding
part is a little 'die
compared to what you love because
leave a little'
of ourselves in every place at every moment .
It 's a pain
thin and definitive as the last line of a poem ...
Leaving is a bit '
die from what you love. It starts as a joke

before travel and every last goodbye

sow a bit 'of our soul.


"beaks then a fork and you say that your life has taken a strange turn, a state riddled almost abandoned, which passes only happy people, now and then, on a small diesel motor home or bike zebra, people running to slow where you expect. and run the white rectangles on the road, and beside the world goes through a decidedly unnatural speed, definitely the colors are more saturated, like a sudden fog bank, but the look you finer, and the view is pure evolution of the species. my proverbial lack sense of direction becomes prophetic, I never pass through here, but I know where to go. I wonder if it is specific dream, I say ok, but if I wake up I'll kill you. "

faith forlani