Fostos De Hanna Monna

Osteria del Sole

With their few years in two if they are supported by an hour at the bar of the tavern full of people vocia, order wine, say hello, his name is on a Friday evening of a week like so many others come to an end without a result. Breath against breath, eyes on the eyes, jointed knees: do not detach your hands off me. There is no word that is not accompanied by a finger touches the handle of a side, which emphasizes the movement of lips that got into perforated top of her. He is tall and handsome. She is tall and beautiful. He has a big brass ring on her finger. And a mustache. She has red hair and cheeks sore from an afternoon spent in bed. And to read both know that they are soon to return. Just a glass of wine, another and then another to slam into the face of their love story, the only - They think - in human history. An old drunk, a regular guest of the inn, is close to them. Interrupts them. He wants to speak and give them the rope. Mica are afraid that someone carried it away, that their only love, the electricity charge of their bodies that continue to fail to be deviating by more than a few centimeters.
Esco.
A restaurant. A bistro, and informal from glossy magazines. In the midst of books. Novels and spaghetti. Essays and tomato sauce. Poetry and speeches in oil. A square table, small, from a French restaurant. They have many more in two decades, certainly affect the whole century. They miss the light, the electricity is gone. He has an accent that comes from out. She held a purple python. They are competing to see who knows more about music, I wonder why rock. Stuff when they had a few years and frequented the inns were full of people shouting. He tries to impress her reciting the titles of vinyl that has been kept at home. You will not impress you, indeed it is a bit 'idiot. They met in a chat room and thought it might be a good way to learn, to wonder with each other, but mostly with themselves. No, nothing to do: they cut the power lines. No electricity. Indeed, a string of irritation for having ruined each other that last kick. A bit 'of antipathy. Even a hint of hatred, at least resentment. I
in half. Nothing tavern, but unable to give up at the bistro, her dishes, lacquer.

Music for writing: Keith Jarrett, The Köln Concert.

Transient Ischemic Attack More Condition_symptoms

Welcome Letter Wedding

tin tin

Obsessive. And repetitive. A music obsessive and repetitive. Hypnotic.
Tin Tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed.
I try to write on a story, to connect my thoughts. A story. I have it on the tip of ....., but it is not. And if I stopped to hear? Maybe the story is not for that, because I stopped feeling. Listen but not feel.
And to think that I would have many stories to tell. Stories of people who do not meet, or clashes, avoid to meet. That would meet, but then life.
is not the story. Yet I have it on the tip of ....
Tin Tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. Tin tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed. Tin tin dyed, tinted tin tin, tin tin dyed.
I can not ringed the thoughts, ideas, emotions.
And the music goes. It should be an endless train of wagons in a flat of Arizona. It should be the race of who can no longer run. It should be a bike, pedaling, pedaling, pedaling. It should be far and away those who seek not have the courage to go. It should be what it was, he wanted it to be, but that could not be let.
Tin Tin dyed.
Like the skin of a dog, those Puppies who wear a fur coat of some size too big for them. No, the opposite. Here is the skin to be tight. As a skin. And if the shots a little more ', just a little', he breaks out.
The music goes, it's easier for her. Someone wrote it for him.
...............
The music is gone.