A blog is like a square. Anyone is allowed to transit, at all hours. There are stories. Pieces of life as prone to fast food. Laws and swallow. We are behind you drink a sip of beer poor, and you go elsewhere. When you're hungry you go back. Eat other words. If you are satisfied to leave comments. A piece of cake for those who come after you. A coca cola cans. A lit cigarette.
I look at the pages of my blog.
How many are featured here?
Poets and writers, discrete pens and desecration, pundits and onlookers, journalists and pimps. Travellers who have lightened the web browsing working days at the time of a click.
How many will return?
who come after them?
A blog is like a square. Sometimes it is crowded with happy faces, the tourists take pictures. At other times it is dark with the street sweepers that sweep away the exuberance of the last public charity concert. We catch up with old friends riding a bicycle, seductive glances of passers-by. And if you have time you can stop to chat with a madman who screams in the trash or the lady who walked the dog combed the fashion.
On a blog to get there by accident. Follow your instincts. Start Pages as matryoshkas. Color, appearance, mentioned profiles of individuals who hide behind fictitious identity. Today
back night in Bologna. The light fades on the red roof, "the people back home in front of the television," and while I wonder how people have ended up on my blog someone tries to chat.
"Hello" attacks.
answer to the greeting.
It 's a boy. He says he writes stories. He says it happened on my blog in the most odd that I can imagine.
I challenge him to tell.
not want to do, says ashamed.
I hope that does not begin to tell Filthy because I close the chat and not reopen again.
He asks me not to laugh. I promise not to do so. He begins to tell.
It seems that someone has read the papers. But I got to do that? I think. That "someone" has suggested a name for something that had to do with his journey. That name was Lucia and he has tried anywhere.
I can not keep his promise and I laugh.
He does not get angry, laugh with me.
It 's a strange night. The wind slams doors and windows and upstairs to discuss some old issues become known to the whole building.
A blog is like a square, I think. Not a place that mixes magic and imagination.
I do not know how you all you've come here. Of course I have had the patience to follow my stories. I wanted to best serve the dishes, pour in your vintage wine glasses and toast to the season that surrounded him. But it's just a fast food restaurant. Cheap words to eat between flights of pigeons and a chewing gum spat out that if you're not careful you stick under your feet.
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