Mats For Carpet On Steps

Summer has exploded as the joy of the winner. The hum of air conditioners turned steals the serene face to the terraces on the roofs of Bologna and the voices of the vulgar television announce anything with great enthusiasm.

The weight of the last days I carry him. My shoulders sag. It 's just a moment, I think. When the work out and poisoned life redden more than thirty degrees, is that I need a shower. A fall of water that water good humor.

walk barefoot on the cool marble of this old house. The thick walls shield me from the city heat and the heavy curtains from prying eyes as I leave traces of clothes on the floor and bounces a hypnotic music notes, epic.

nettle shampoo, conditioner of the fairies, wide tooth comb and natural foam. Within the tank mosaic green, pull the tent canvas and close my eyes waiting for the jet. The first drops, such as steel pins, stick to cold on the face and wake me up from the torpor of a sunny afternoon. Embrace the hot water you want without suffering, and I wait confident and spreads the scent of a cream bath. The water is always colder.

He pushed her back. Chrome fittings on a layer of condensation announces the frost. "Holy ... put." Swear, and go out of the tub dripping. The wrinkled skin as goose squawking annoyed air of a little girl with a broken toy.

Beyond the window of the boiler can not see flames and a slimy pond takes shape at my feet. I try to start the fire but nothing to do. As an ice cream that melts under the hot sun I wander the house looking for a box of matches. I find them and returned shivering. We'll try and try again. The light turns on.

"The waiver is also wisdom," said my math teacher. And I am not wise to try to exhaustion, but no results.

The discouragement is way easier when no hot water, but even worse would be if it lacked the cold, I think. Go to the kitchen leaving a trail of wet footprints. There are pots and ready to ignite flames.

child I see myself in the former home of the grandparents, a wooden tub in the bathroom that he knew he must, with the woman's hand soap me singing "Parlami d'amore Mariu.

smile and now the toilet will not stop. If only not to give rise to the words of that old teacher who could only play with numbers.

How Should I Take Temazepam

Sadness, Please Go 'VIA

I fought with dragons throughout the night to earn the awakening. "It 's the dawn of a new day," my mother always said when a child, I hid under the covers to avoid facing the crisp air of the winter morning.

In only a few cars and some road bike that slides over the ancient cobblestones.

"Chasing a dragonfly in a meadow, a day that I had broken with the past. ..." He sings on the radio Battisti, my coffee while grumbling and demands attention.

Since yesterday I as a mosquito buzzing around the sadness that wants my blood. I took her to the park to see the children of dirty ice cream. He is distracted by pushing the joke of two old men sitting in the shade, then returned to my side, lying in the sun, as no bathing season.

We walked on the grass in slow steps, without speaking. E 'uphill riding my bike and I brought her dead weight windows to see off the streets of downtown.

He drank my tea, ate my cake Almond.

At sunset we stopped in the square where a blue-eyed man played the guitar. Reflected in vain I looked at those notes that talked about her. The false smile to hide my true intentions. And at an opportune moment I fled panting back home. I cut for unknown streets. Erased my tracks by throwing sand on the tracks. But the front door I found sitting on the step, which made faces at passers-by.

In the evening he was still with me. The livid face of fatigue and a cynical grin that seemed to say: "I do not rebel, so I stay here!"

Some say that sadness is the encounter between the desire and its limits. The online dictionary gives the sentiment just as the artists always on the run for more than themselves. Eugenio Montale said that man cultivates the misery for the sake of fighting it in small doses.

For me it's just a bad match, words that I can not forget. And 'the smell of rust of a track that draws the wrong track. The taste left in the middle of a meal. The castle far away where I live with the prince.

back to sleep. Who knows, maybe the second will really wake the dawn of a new day.

Kavithai In Tamilfor Marriage

ARTIST YOU WANT TO SPEAK

Painting is the language of those who prefer signs and colors to the sterility of certain discourses. Perfect for the deaf and dumb and unknown to the gossips, painting is music for the eyes. Sometimes a song, sometimes it is rock. If jazz is sudden. In its more subtle nuances is a classical sonata.

I'm not a painter, but when I spend every last word and the bottom of the pockets are not that crumbs of syllables, is the color that I need, its natural melody and forms that come out of the shadows.

"His daughter will never learn to draw!" thundered my first teacher of the class. "Have you ever seen a left-handed painter?" Was raging. I'd never seen even a painter, I looked at my left hand and followed the lines of a life that was not all that thing there.

It 's a humid morning in Bologna. The town holds a summer and after the illusion of someone upstairs has already made the coffee warm.

are in an empty room, my future bedroom. A tiled floor looks old ceiling bare four long strides towards the sky. At that height would be a good decoration liberty, simple, floral, I think looking at it. I've already painted ceilings and a frieze of that type is not so difficult to achieve. But my imagination knows no censorship, and in light of a dark blue-stained clouds, I saw two winged cherubs who walked garlands of flowers and leaves intertwined.

"No, you can do it!" Warned a voice from within.

Why not? I ask naively.

"Why have you never painted a body." Retorted the voice.

The painting comes from the observation. I will be meticulous, I assure you.

"not enough to look, you need more experience." Insists arrogant.

I look at the ceiling. The image of little boys back to dominate the leaves laurel and geometric forms that redefine the space. I see them. Half-closed eyes, bodies and prosperous suspended.

I can not leave nothing.

Monto an old scaffolding. The shiny metal alternates dried drops of color elements.

On the wooden table there are three primary colors of powder and a bag of charcoal. A piece of fine sandpaper, jars of natural pigments, brushes, and a bowl of clean water.

I turn up the volume on the radio and I climb up to the last level.

The smell of the dough is colorful and an afternoon of games after trouble in a village school.

I look at my arm. The meat is not pink, I repeat myself. There's yellow, blue veins, the shadow of the folds of the skin. If I had not learned to see I never realized how white is on the wet leaves. I'd never see the shadow shapes. I never noticed that the sea at night can be yellow.

With all the jars are opened like a chef who mixes ingredients and produces attractive and poisonous creams that can not be sampled. The first color is ready. Too dark. Too pink. Too cold. Add a touch of yellow. The color is warm but it is still too heavy. Mingled with white. Add another shadow. Now it is gray. A bit of Magenta and solid returns to relive. Still too dark. Other white. Mingled with water. Too yellow. Cool blue with cyan. Too off. Spice up again with Magenta. Cookin 'raw with the yellow and put it out with the shadow. Last pinch of white: this is it!

Now I just need strength and a good dose of luck to guide me his hand. And if all goes well, soon I'll wake up looking at two little boys who dance, the color of my tan arm.