The liar has twice the heart, "wrote St. Augustine. But who is double heart has a way out, I think. Knead the reality, blended with the creative ingredient that makes it more tasty, can help the man to save dall'infiacchimento customs.
It 's sunny morning and Bologna. The skirts seem shorter and you do not see hats. Someone dares output jacket and light trousers. A boy in sweatshirt and glasses are replacing the spark plug scooter on the roadside. A look at the spring seems angry that someone woke ahead of time. Sitting at a cafe table on the porch, I browse the news town and I pass by the news, dusty and tired, like cars passing on the cobblestones of Via Santo Stefano. The heels of suits that go to the office rhythms resonate Emilia and some men just shaved leaving a trail of scent that mingles with the smell of coffee grains that a girl has just handed me the Venetian accent. Agata , as always, is late. While I drink to sip that flavor How long dark smile and think of a lie. Without guile and without intention to harm the truth works as a skilled tanner preparing to face the winter coats.
I know, will come running. Tell that he had found a ghost on the edge of the bed, make me chuckle with its reality shifted and forget the wait.
Thinking of you evaporate all desire a world without lies.
The first lies to the family where my mother was lying on people's health care and my brother made me believe that the beads grows underground. Then he continued my first love. He, real playmaker guy sea, managed to turn a sour feeling in a story made up of passionate arguments and tears doorstep, smothered with hugs and rides motorcycles in the pine forest on the coast. Following were the others. Lying to conquer, not to hurt me lies, lies for the fun and soon I found comfortable lodging in the illusion. Tricking the mind I could love and hate, suffering and joy until one day I no longer separate reality from dream and I have taken refuge in art. Breath to the music, I feed on words, images devour, savor voices from the stage and stroke sculpted surfaces.
Art is the lie that enables us to know the truth, "said Pablo Picasso. And of all the lies, "is still less than what the mind."
Agata will not come. I pay the bill from the bar. I flatter myself that it is already spring, but wait until the last the north wind.
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