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.