Guitar Zero Streaming

IO

It 's a new day in Bologna. The morning falls upon me like a plaster ceiling that collapsed in an earthquake.

When someone rubs my fantasy with sharp knives, I leave the nightmares trapped between the threads of the fabric that covered me in the night, I open the door of an old dark wood furniture, flip through old vinyl records and port my sleepy body to discover the wonders of a life that continues.

was 1981 when he died. Romantic and sad, mixed with humor and sarcasm in a black cylinder head and the anger of a South that suffered under the sun ill. His name was Rino Gaetano and now sing for me.

"I write" attack with a persuasive voice, "because if you want to look for a different world, with neon stars and a little universe, and I feel like a hero in his spare time."

I listen.

Embrace the cover of his album while he continues to sing. "... I will write about the world and its ugliness, on my public image and the dark room on my past and my fears ...."

I look at him. He strokes the dog. The stylus cuts the groove of the disc. Attacks "You Mary."

"And when the sun is setting, a love song, from Baja in Salvador, oh Maria will sing for you. " His words

alternate instruments in concert knows that prickly pear and roads that unroll in the southern countryside. The tapping of fingertips on the skin of the bongos is a breeze ancestral calling to which I can not resist. I must dance.

barefoot on the wood I move to the rhythm of Latin percussion. My hips are mandolin and sway from the time of the steel ropes that move on the sound box inlaid. The blood pump with a new cadence and the head is guided by the notes that surrounded him. I raise my arms. I turn up the volume.

"And this strange taste that is made of freedom today tells me that something has changed in me oh Maria
you are no longer with me. "

He continues to sing.

My hands hit the plates of an imaginary drums. The legs are handles guitars that change with distance agreements. The song you panting breath.

The air coming out from the bell of the trumpet section in my uncombed hair.

Tour on myself, I nonetheless. Oscilloscope. I shake and I get heat.

He continues to sing.

"And when the sun is setting, a love song, from Baja in Salvador, Maria will sing oh oh oh ..."

I dance, and while dance is a metaphor, as Degas said, or are they just possessed, as it was my grandmother. But the heart vibrates, settles his shots, pushes back the emotion, and every time I hear it so, I'm almost happy.