Period Is 3 Days Away

water with a tear farewell

The sky cried this morning. His acid tears have soaked the city and under the arcades parade raincoats and jackets that wrap souls frozen in a humid day and misleading. The rain beats shots seated at the windows to the north and watering the plants too often overlooked. I gulp down the water look like marathon runners after the race. They are strong and combative. Every year they try to flourish. We flourish and renew their foliage. Grows and produces some other plants. Someone else, with courage, dies.

Today the sun is not at our meeting, I think. And I had also bought a new shirt ...

One time we were together until sunset. I remember it. We met on the beach. Sometimes it was already there at dawn and saw him brush a pink tint on the surface of a flat sea. "What are you doing?" I said. "You change the color of water?" I had never responded once!

I often reached where rocks me off on a surfboard. His touch was gentle in appearance only. I singed with the help of the wind and did not sleep the night in pain thinking of him.

If I look at it blinds me. Take the colors. Mixes them. It makes them go until they distinguish more light. If I try to hide behind clouds accomplices.

I always deny its beauty and today I decided to betray him.

Esco on the terrace by the smell of wet ground. Two drops I slide under the sweater, like fingers from the light touch. A third stop on the face, it redraws the contours with grace and skill. Then come the other to grow the insistent rhythm. The water flowing hair. Reflect on your hands. Pat their backs. The rain gathers around and sings to me at my feet cold. I breathe in assets such as plant emissions. If I saw my mother would think of having thrown his money to make me study. I smile.

"Lucy what are you doing?" Cries a neighbor. "I do not see that it's raining?"

It 's a middle-aged lady with her hand on his head cotton.

greet you and I go back home.

The sky continues to cry I do not know what to do. Bathroom was the only way I knew to comfort him.

Formula For Height Of Dishend

ROMAGNA MIA

"Blessed are you who live by the sea!" I said when I lived by the sea. While I, a little girl 'rebel and a bit' romantic gallop as a young filly of grassland, and dreamed the city riding a red bicycle with coaster brake.

"I want to go where history is made!" Confessed to friends. "Just live in the ass in the world!" Reproached my mother. They called me the "whimsical" because I loved the hats and kicking the dead leaves Autumn avenues. My "weird" offered ideas for conversation, and that place, that Grazia Deledda called "the land of wind," is still the place to start and what to return to.

are in Bologna after spending a few days on that stretch of coast that is familiar to me.

"Blessed are you that you were on the beach!" He screams from the nearby stairs. "How was the presentation of the book?"

"Presenting my book is easy." I admit. "I just stay composed and not disturb the others talk about me."

She smiles at me and I enter the house chilly winter's tail by well-aimed his final shot.

think back to the beach. Only a few days ago it was heated by the sun and I shameless, reckless and always in love with him, I stretched out on the shorts that I brought the earth Agata tsunami, and remained in costume, gave up its heat.

For three days I played the summer with sandals made of cloth and large sunglasses collection. Eyes closed, I focused on perfumes accompanied by wind that rustled among the buckets of sand that filled my childhood and the gurgling of the water that has amazed my adolescence. The heat rippled on the shore deforming the few bodies lying down while I listened to old songs by Rino Gaetano.

What I miss that strip of land, when my feet and wears elegant lead me to roam the streets of this city?

Perhaps the sea? Tons of salt water that disappear off the line of fusion with the blue gaseous air?

The sunsets on the darkened skin? The bonfire night one of the secrets of the cabins?

As an unprepared student look at the blank look and do not answer the question of reserves.

"The Land of Wind" is not far away. Today I'm just a window to the east to see the birth of the light and find that someone has heard my words without me ever known.

Male Genital Prostata Examination

LOVE IN MILAN

The memory is a way to meet people, I read somewhere. But remember nothing ever happens again. And remember the time he learns to lie.

E 'in the late evening train station. The last train is gone. He knows that I love to travel in the dark, without images, without the postcards sent to memory. He knows that there is time to leave. That the track does not flee. And he knows that I can spend the night in Milan.

lying Reminiscences of the days when I carried the red ribbon on the apron of the school depict gray city, sad. There I was a child. An aunt, a tower block with no lift long marble staircase severe. Bowling alley where an old game that had fought the wars and the boredom of the museums. Fog, smog, confusion and memories in black and white.

After an afternoon spent in a room with three Egyptian manufacturers of dreams to throw down the first twenty steps of a screenplay, I walk in the gentle breeze of a fifth season, which surprises the weather Shakes and unknown areas, like the hand of a timid young lover. Milan is not the gray city of my memories deceivers. Milan streets of colored people who live the wonder of a balmy afternoon. Milan is the love coming out of the closet as a cat wandering in search of food.

I first see them cross the road with my heart excited. Mouth to mouth, are led by four feet and a flickering thought. Other if they are sitting at a coffee shop. Eye to eye, you lose in new words and old palpitations. Two in a corner, driven by an irrepressible passion, give a kiss to travelers who can not quell the raging pulse, while their despite the lower belly is looking clothes, bags and a mother with her child closes his eyes.

Others are rocking on the sofa in stone. He smokes. She looks at him. She stroked the bony face and finds it beautiful. Two other smiling to embrace a goal that will stop that image and bring it to tomorrow. Still others are waiting, hand in hand, someone comes to take them away and hope in the night.

A love that was born in March, under the sign of the fish I think. How Venditti's song, as readers of pescinellarete and how my grandmother, who has seen the love hard work and an hour of tenderness, burned quickly in the bed of a barn, on a sultry afternoon early last century.

The touch of the north wind gives me the chills and stiffens the last layer of my skin.

Lovers I find curious. Cross the threshold of a hotel. They close the door, and disappear through the glass.

The Letter Fo Comercial Offer

WORDS THAT DO NOT NEED MORE 'BUT LIES

It 's a sunny afternoon in Bologna. The arcades keep the timid rigidity of a mild winter and a girl with big calves and flat shoes walking licking an ice cream. Cuts of light across the red roofs of modern and reflect light brown on the facades of the palaces of old.

On days like this and I love to walk the beat of my heel is the rhythm of a heart trained, and with a chime that serves as background music known to my wandering.

before the windows are with me the notes of an accordion, pushed out of the boredom of two slave arms and external speakers at the corner of an elegant barettino Vanoni a blow to the sound of samba singing "life is not look for it, but use your mouth, eyes and heart. "

I feel the wind on my face and let him get under the trenches, which opens on my hips and flutters like sail of a windsurfing ready to go. I walk towards the square with his eyes fixed on Palazzo del Podestà glimpsed majestic down the road. From this point of the city is tilted and curved like an old man sleeping on the sofa after lunch. I live the city like the last time and allows me to see something that belongs only to the last times. It 's almost my amazement the stranger. The look of one who has to start again after a few hours and take photographs in the mind to bring something with them.

On the porch a girl on his wooden desk sells old postcards in black and white pearl necklaces old. He smiles. Through some yellowed image. They are landscapes, portraits of families posing with the dress of the party and faces retouched hailing a fascist past. Children, roses decorated with bows and beaches not too crowded. And bring back the words that are no longer needed.

I think if I had a desk like that I could sell myself to get rid of their old words and unnecessary weight. Words of old friends who never return and that no one sings lullabies. Words of exams and forgotten words to songs you never hear. But above all, words of love. Those of the offer. He'd ordered and I would give exposure lovers kissing in the alley and the guy that three days is writing a letter to the fallen woman. I'd have something for everyone. Words whispered in the ear in a night of passion, words written in rhyme with heart-pounding, invented words, words of desire and fantasies of sentimental words, nicknames and useless promises. If I had a desk like that sell everything. Clean the shelves of memory erasing to the end "my love" and wait for the bloom of the fields.

Girl of the counter looks at me curiously. I buy a postcard of Rome, which shows the love to a woman who signed the cuneiform calligraphy Daniel T. and on the way back the external speakers of the shoot barettino elegant notes of a Vinicio Capossela wondering "What is love." I smile because now I have no words, and as far as I'm concerned can continue to ask ourselves for the night.