I Love The Summit Trainer

A Christmas Ghost

blogger friends Happy Holidays! And finally I managed at least to wish you a HAPPY NEW YEAR * *! And Lily, right on Christmas day (read the diary written by spiders on the wings of butterflies), has discovered a wire made of light of nearby stars, a thread that was there, almost to tickle the nose, in the infinite network that stretches across the sky of the tarmac. When will

Master Frost? ask the children. Shake fists in a comet? Until their dust from the air and earth, does not spread in a childish eyes long last sleep and the shadow is thick with the ghosts of children, no white response will echo from the rooftops.
Dylan Thomas

So, Lily, in his Christmas without lights and no body, he read a story that made her feel less alone and it was as if the ghost had made a Christmas gift.

Heaven era bianco, quasi indistinguibile dal vetro appannato dalla condensa e fuori era così freddo che di chi passava per strada si vedevano solo gli occhi, umidi nel vento, spuntare dal bordo lanoso delle sciarpe. Però, il piccolo Nord decise di uscire alla ricerca di Maestro Gelo. Il Natale era passato senza neve sui tetti e Nord pensava che Maestro Gelo avesse perso la strada. Così, Nord si diresse verso la piazza del paese, dove l'abete era stato addobbato con luci e una stella cometa, attaccata in qualche modo alla sua punta. Nord si ricordava una leggenda, sì forse era una leggenda e non una storia, che raccontava di come una stella cometa avesse indicato la strada a tre Re che volevano raggiungere un bambino per portargli qualche dono che non si aspettava. "I wonder 'asked as he walked north in the direction of the square, fighting the wind to blow against," I wonder if this comet in the country that we can point the way to Master Frost, who is lost. " Arrived under the tree of lights, North looked the comet, which was high-very high up there on its point-and thought that if Master Frost had not seen so far was probably because he was not close enough to heaven, because there were buildings around the square that were much higher. Then she called "Master Frost! Master Frost! See the comet? ", But the wind blew and whistled loud, the lights rattled, creaked and North branches of the fir tree soon Master Frost became convinced that there would never be heard. North, and then, having decided to get too close to the sky and disappeared in the blink of an eye under the boughs of the fir tree, clinging to the trunk and using the branches to pull himself higher and higher, closer to the star. It was such a rush to get that not even heard the crack under the feet, just before starting to fall. A fall with the snow, in a white silence. Just before dark last sleep thought he heard the echo of a cold voice in his head, answering him, "Behold, North ... I got there, thanks for letting me find the way ...». There was a flake of snow now on the nose of the North and a bit 'of blood that came out mouth.

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The secret of the rat

Lily was in front again by a thread. A thread among the many that made up the network, which was illuminated with white light in the storm. As if the storm to choose which wire Lily were approaching. And it was easy for Lily reach the story that lay under the sky of asphalt, made of words that were dry as if they were clothes hanging in the wind, then put away in a drawer. Forever. It was a story about humanity's only marginally, spoke of more autonomous intelligent animals, born without a po'assurdamente the work of Nature. But now, unexpectedly for some, they had managed to escape liability of destiny.
So, Lily found herself in front of the lair of the Rat.

in the green space and open the English countryside, there is a small irregular arc on the outer wall, old and chalky, of an abandoned house. It is the entrance to the lair of the Rat. Is impossible to spy on us inside. Is granted only to his friends arrive at their doorstep. Even the ants are not entered freely, and if forced to pass in front should always take the long way, climbing over the wall and along the arc from the outside. Why
Mouse Mouse is a loner and admits only the visit of two friends. A spider named Spider Spider is a small beetle, called Beatle Beatle, are the only creatures that the Mouse does not show the sharp teeth when they occur on entry to its lair. They are the two friends Mouse Mouse, because they both know how to keep secrets. Mouse and Rat has one, just one, but that is all his loneliness. And if I can maybe try to tell it, not because one of his friends betrayed him, but because I was the jailer of the Rat.
Until just over a year ago, Mouse Mouse, designed for cloning of another like her, lived in a laboratory for genetic testing. Then, one evening, he managed to escape.
That night he had awakened from sleep before the others that had been artificially imposed by the administration of sedatives. Myself I had pulled out of the cage, but had escaped me, surprised me with an alertness unpredictable. He had been rimpiattato somewhere for two hours, but when I opened the door to exit the lab I went between his feet, earning the escape outside the building. I chased up the house I saw him disappear through the wall just below quell'archetto irregular and clandestine embrace instantly. Every time I go back to the house for him the post, but since then I have not seen leaving. Only a few times, I saw his silhouette appears on entry to the den, in the shadows, where the white of his hair becomes gray. And the rat reaches the threshold only when they come to visit her two friends.
Beatle Beatle, the cockroach, slipped in a puddle in the churchyard of the Christian church of my town, in his first outing with his mother and several brothers. The mother, unwilling to attend worship environments, this baptism took as an ominous sign of fate, as if the child other than her, and from then on, that had not been able to give her problems and removed him from the family that same day, children not missing much. Beatle Beatle now lives alone in the deserted house, with the only constant company of Spider Spider.
Spider Spider is sixteen feet, and is likely to be born in the laboratory, or it's just a joke della natura.
Ma qual è il segreto di Topo Mouse? Posso fare soltanto un’ipotesi. Da quanto ho potuto osservare in laboratorio, posso dire che Topo Mouse abbia una sorta di comportamento mutante notturno. Topo Mouse è molto intelligente, posso affermare con certezza che muti volontariamente. E riesce a farlo straordinariamente. Una mattina, in cui ero arrivato molto presto in laboratorio, l’ho trovato che sulla schiena aveva ancora i resti degli aculei bianchi di un’istrice. Così, mi sono trattenuto in laboratorio per diverse notti, ma purtroppo Topo Mouse si è guardato bene dal mutare in mia presenza. Mentre un giorno, dopo la sua fuga, l’ho visto accogliere il Ragno nella veste di un aracnide bianco del tutto simile to him, given the number of legs that I could count. A spider with sixteen legs, as white as the fur of Mouse Mouse.
Now for only one night a week, appears from nowhere, not far from the house, a circus. A circus that has enormous tents for cobwebs. The owner of the circus is a little man from the shaggy white hair and mustache, with two small ears and a face to tip a little 'rat-.
Inside the circus we are witnessing the spectacle of an animal at a time, without the work of a trainer. The animals are all wonderful and legendary albino. There is the white fly. The white lion. The white elephant. And even a white whale that appears only for a minute, tearing the canvas the tent at the end of the show. People began to rush numerous, leaving home and stopping instantly as soon as any activity starts to spread the voice of the appearance of the Circus. The show is so charming that no one wants to leave and after the number of the white whale, there is always someone who begins to whistle calling for the replication of the representation. But then, after the first whistle in the middle of the track appears the owner of the circus grinds his teeth long and sharp, showing them to the public. Even this is enough to send home all those people, but in the end, though, and always, because escaping the circus is invaded dall'orrido countless swarm of cockroaches they do not stop running everywhere and remains as long as even one person. Then even the cockroaches disappear suddenly, along with the circus, nell'afflosciarsi of the canvas, as if everything was sucked out of the ground of the English countryside.
And I do not know in what form Mouse Mouse reached his hole again, because at that time the shadow of the night is so thick that the bow out of sight, it being an imaginary hole in the wall of the old abandoned house.

When Lily came down on the grass, had the impression that the spiders were smiling.

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The ogre laughs

still a little in front of Lily. The fourth wire. The fourth wire was black. Black as pitch. Black as m orte. And Lily was alive would have been afraid even to approach. But Lily was dead. Lily was a ghost. It was no longer afraid of death because the death of reading, she knew, or at least so he thought. But he realized immediately that the fourth wire could hold some surprises, because while continuing to fluctuate felt heavy as lead. She seemed to be grounded even if the soft soil of the lawn was over there, far from his feet and so far that if Lily had a body you would still casts its shadow, as it makes a big cloud in the sky that passes .
Lily did not expect to have to read the death of dreams and illusions. But it was what he did. Because even the ghosts have a destiny and that Lily was to read the stories they wove on the great spider's web. And who knows if it was a spider in writing, the great mother of all spiders that had caressed with phobic insistence, calling back his life every time he seemed to try to get away from her. Until the last final defeat, when even the spiders had to raise the white flag and surrender to death.
And what Lily had read the smell of a path known only beings night and the words were quiet, as something that says the head of a deaf man.

Orc I heard the laughter and the moon is off, as I climbed to the top of the bald
hill on that path of round stones that make count more
the will to reach the top of the steps that you make.

It was not the moon lit the way for me,
was Orc pallor of the face.
It was not the moon was out,
had his mouth open in laughter dark.
And they were not stars, those who now saw shine nel buio, erano i denti dell'Orco.
L'Orco che ingoia i sogni portati dalle civette.
L'Orco che ride delle illusioni.

E mentre scendevo dal sentiero di sassi rotondi,
non contava più la mia volontà.
Ma contavano i passi che facevo.
Quando arrivai a valle non mi voltai a scrutare
il cielo sul colle.
l'Orco ancora rideva.

E mi feci inghiottire dalla notte sulla strada come fosse un mantello che mi copriva le spalle.

La storia del quarto filo si spense come se ogni altro suono fosse possibile, da allora in poi, in un altro mondo. Ma mai più nel mondo di Lily.

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A silver thread

The third thread of silver light shone the moon that he had no part in the luminous phenomenon. Shine on his own, because the moon in the sky of asphalt, when Lily was dead, there was no longer come. Perhaps because of the melancholy ghost of Lily felt tears fill her eyes, the orbits were now a dark lake that a persistent rain was overflowing from the perimeter of the crater, where they usually rocked nothing and some spiders. So Lily
read a story written in words that seemed to dry up just read luminescent and disappear in a magic dust of stars. And the only thing that remained was the wistful memories of the moon.

There was a shadow coming out only at night, rats stretched on the ground and walked all the streets, all in one night. He collected items lost, rejected the calls, the haste and carelessness, the hidden truths from the lies. Every night I was cleaning the streets from the shadow that had been ignored. Until one night he was surprised to pick up the moon. The moon never looked a man. The moon had fallen from the sky, every night more, to be noticed. Because the man he never raised his eyes to the sky and counted the steps for him alone on the earth. When it was found there in the moon's feet had ignored because it did not able to recognize it, so that was not seen. And he no longer even a memory. It thought that the light at night, you just did with the street lamps.
picked up the moon's shadow, pushing forward in the air that stirred in his race against the day approaching. The moon was a burden that even the shadow side eventually abandoned on the street. And even those who, when the day was already full, the moon found the street, he could not recognize it. Without a doubt, even when at night, raising his head, he noticed that it was a moonless night. While the man still did not raise his eyes from his steps, back in the house with closed shutters. As the shadow came back street cleaning the roads that had been ignored, finding the moon where he had left there.

And this was the story of the third wire. The lake was emptied and returned in the dark craters. Lily lost the memory of melancholy, because it is short of the melancholy ghosts. It remains the memory of the moon, as a scar tattoo embellished with silver.

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The second wire (I'm)

Lily was a bit 'he thought, thought to be a full season.
thought every day because it was near the instability. The sky was near as much as that of asphalt, which was an infinite web woven by the spider. Each filo della rete sembrava potersi spezzare da un momento all'altro e pendere per sempre, senza più uno scopo, nell'infinità e nell'eternità del niente. La precarietà è stabile, questo pensava Lily. E chi più di lei, fantasma di se stessa, entità fluttuante e inconsistente, poteva esserne rappresentazione? Fluttuante quanto lo spazio psichico in cui si sviluppa la follia privata, perché non c'è una frontiera tracciata che distingue la follia dalla normalità. E questa normalità bruciante, questa autocombustione della quotidianità e dei rapporti sociali in senso ampio, non è forse follia per quell'umanità che si diceva composta di animali sociali ? No, signor Bauman, avrebbe voluto dirgli Lily, la vita in cui ci svegliamo ogni mattina non è liquida, è un fuoco che fa calare il sole sulla cenere.
Ma adesso Lily poteva smettere di pensare, perché era una tipetta curiosa di guardare da vicino quello che le stava davanti. E davanti a Lily c'era il secondo filo, che doveva leggere in fretta perché si sarebbe potuto spezzare da un momento all'altro.

C'era una vecchia dalla schiena curva che sorrideva agli angeli. Gli angeli erano ombre alate che correvano sui muri, che la vecchia vedeva sbirciando a capo chino, ogni volta che alzava lo sguardo dal suo passo. Il suo passo era uno strisciare di ciabatte consunte quanto la sua voglia di vivere. E fortuna che c'erano gli angeli con her, because she would otherwise have been alone. And fortunately there were angels who held the walls, because otherwise the house would have seemed bare. And fortunately there were angels, because a day would come together, the Angel of Death. Because the old had no desire to live, but did not know how to die. They had not eaten for days and did not drink, but this was not enough to sacrifice his body accustomed to the surrender to the eternal sleep. The dog was dead, there in the corner his body looked like a monument to all that he had loved and who was now living only in memories. And the old woman wanted to turn off the memories and friends only to have the angels. And the old woman smiled, because only the angels they could bring into the house, the Angel of Death.

And this was the story that weaves the plot of the second wire. A story that waited for more of everything. And perhaps, in a network, there is not an end.

Poptropica Words With Letters B-o-q-n-s-p-e

The first thread, that Lily was in front of the nose, ran away like a track that puts on the horizon, a needle in a pincushion, or if you look in the knowledge that the goal is not the padding. We have the padding that holds a tiny world. Like ours. A world where the words embroider destinies, as waves of foam that leave marks on the sand. A world where the foam of the waves of spider weaves threads of drool. And the threads of a cloth, and so intersect the destinies intersect in nodes that are the occasions.
Yes, there was a thread that ran like a track directly in the middle of a hidden destiny. And destiny has always been a story. Lily read it, because he had the ability to interpret the embroideries of the burr of the spider, so that, in the network in front of her, resembled words.

There was a small rose garden, where a girl who spent hours getting longer and spend more in the light of spring. The girl had a name fragrant and delicate as his skin and took care of most of the roses herself. He lived there alone. There was no longer the father who had been planting roses in the day of his birth. There was no mother, because its place remained only his madness. The girl took care of the roses because roses made her company. And waiting for spring to flush them out from the house of which only occupied three rooms on the ground floor. The folly of the mother lived upstairs, along with a nurse dressed in white face that changes every two months. The nurse gave a sleeping longer and longer to madness, because its late and cry less and less of lightning illuminated the white sheets covering furniture and chairs. Also, when lightning lit up with shouts upstairs, broke out the rough thunder of pain, slamming of doors that opened only to close it out loud. No one should ever enter or exit.
The girl was waiting for the spring. Why is the detached leaves fall from the trees and she could hear the moans. The winter was ashen and he knew of dust. She looked at the rose garden, rigid intentions in the cold dark of the drums, feeling rigarsi the face, like a glass of rain. The roses were his hope, in the winter. And hope blossomed fruit only in spring. And in the summer could still hope for the surprise of a second flowering. Because the girl who cared more about herself roses and roses came back to blossom, almost at the beginning of autumn. Why roses knew, somehow, company should do to that girl by the name fragrant and delicate. Before he returned in the autumn to fill the house of lamentation of the leaves. Before he returned to the winter rain rigarle of the face, while his eyes, two pits filled with dark desire, you light up only certain pending the arrival of spring.

And this is the story that ran on the first track to slip into the horizon of destiny and the destiny that he would find an end, perhaps we will never know. Why
fate is far from the nose of Lily.

Old Poptropicaislands

The first track (with a good book to tell)

all the fault of the Wolf. The Wolf knocked
from above the sky of asphalt and has opened a parenthesis in the long history of Lily.
Here.

(Now that I read for a living, I remember happy when I read for pleasure. And with the hope that return times, because even if they pay you to read the stories of the Winx is mortifying, I open a parenthesis that looks like a window on the past, who arrives from afar, but that goes up a few years ago. And I do not know if it will be five books, because they are in front of the shelves of my library and it makes me want to pull down everything that is upon us.

The first memory of a childhood book that changed my life goes back to the cover of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer . While my grandmother, in my indifference, I went Little Women, I spent the afternoons to catch lizards and break stones for quartz veins found in the imaginary precious gold. A summer to tear my pants climbing trees. A search for someone in the neighborhood that would make me afraid, just looking to find the courage to entrargli in the garden by jumping from the wall. And finally, what on earth can be more fascinating that enter the garden of the convent of cloistered nuns ... and being chased by the gardener! That summer, the dolls were finally covered with dust.
Then it is dyed yellow forever. The Yellow Boys . Nancy Drew made me An investigation into grass, actually a little pain in the neck, which dogged the neighborhood and was responsible for killings of cats that cracks in the area for unnatural death. With my friends had founded a group of investigation, we found a small toy kit to detect fingerprints (DNA testing was still far away) and we invented a sign language to communicate in remote ambushes, until we dotammo even walkie-talkie! Ten Little Indians and nightmares, in adolescence, when the dream is just me and my father and my father was then the murderess. Or not?
The teenager becomes a high school student and discovers something bigger of her passion for literature: Nana by Emile Zola, The basement of the Vatican by André Gide (Lafcadio are still engaged, you know?) Grows Older by Italo Svevo (Yes, Antonio .. . ...), I novels for years Pirandello that lasted just over a month and The rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge , closing up Ode to the West Wind Shelley.
Free to read, finally:
Dino Buzzati, even all, but especially The shop of mystery .
Dylan Thomas, and there is nothing to add for him. Derek Raymond
by And he died with his eyes open to My name was Dora Suarez .
Paco Ignacio Taibo II, so the yellow , but especially the intimate biography of Che Guevara: without losing the tenderness .
Leo Malet and his trilogy noir, especially Life is a disgusting and The sun is not for us .
Dmitri Bakin, a unique collection of short stories, homeland , and total admiration. Gaetano
Blacks, master of the short story, even short: Forget grandma's , that made me want to write the check and discovered that the stories can stand in half a page.
Giovanni Arduino (link here to one side, on this blog), Mai like you, who taught me that you can tell without going into facts, writing of colors and emotions without fear of languid, giving the languid a painful taste.
Saer and the recent release of The survey, oriented with the punctuation in the vortex of concentric periods.
Sergei Dovlatov, The suitcase and The march of the lonely (Bunkr and thanks for allowing me to walk every day for the world gratified by this loneliness, which is not alienation or strangeness, but only a part of me, in good company of others who do not crown your skepticism, but they can not live otherwise).

close the brackets. But the brackets can re-open very easily, just touch the right key!).

The work shown here is Giampiero Cleaned. The invitation is to seek a virtual gallery.

Masking Model Airplanes

Ghost Lily and Lily infinite network

How can we be sure that no one listens to us because no one answers?
Lily does not know how you can be sure, because Lily is not certain. Neither this nor any other. Is there anything that you can be sure, when the possibilities are endless?
This was the only one that thought had happened to Lily. And because the counter that served as the heart beats counted few, this was what Lily thought. But that's not because no one answers you can stop asking questions. Even if it meets the silence you do not have to stop to release the item. Because we know that the voice is carried on a sound wave. And a wave always comes from somewhere. And if it dissipates foam on the beach, you can say, however, reached the beach. And if a cry seems to get lost in the emptiness, emptiness is perhaps just too big an area to which we do not give a size and call it 'empty' a little 'reassures us. On the other hand the space of the universe that includes in its size gives substance to this little world. So every body more or less complex, gives size to the small world of universal cells that make up. And the cells might have a social life that a little 'like ours. At least in the broadest sense. Some complete in themselves. Others are to meet from to reproduce, to communicate their heritage to posterity.
Lily is now a ghost. Some ghosts are enough in themselves. Others can not help but be felt and try to communicate. And ghosts do not want to leave. Never. For this Lily is here. Seeking a reason for the silence of a thousand eyes that read.

"The network of this spider is huge," said Lily is a diddly squat of asphalt from the sky, noticing for the first time that those clouds were believed to be from the lawn just a big old spider's web. And the spider had imprisoned infinite words and each strand of the network had a long history, which perhaps had no effect. Now Lily just wanted to know who were the stories.
This alone was already a good reason to cross the sky and emerge in the world. Lily had found the curiosity of discovery.
and read, all in one go, the story si stendeva sul primo filo che aveva davanti agli occhi.

E quando tornerà qua, sarà per raccontarvela.

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Ghost - Chapter One

Fantasmi...
ci parlo spesso
e spesso loro parlano a me
o di me
non l'ho mai capito bene questo

non l'ho capito tutte quelle volte
in cui li sento urlare tra loro
nella mia testa
quasi fosse la loro

ma forse io sono loro
o loro sono una parte di me

proprio oggi
che le voci son piccine
e schiacciate dalla grande ruota del tempo
che non mi lascia più tempo
proprio oggi
i fantasmi
parlanti o meno
me less afraid
fan of many reality ...


down their screaming


And Lily was only a shadow that evil was distinguished from the gray asphalt of the sky, the green lawn, and any other color of what was down there. It was a shadow that was around in that subterranean world. It was a ghost and Alibre smelled of mildew. As centuries had passed since the voices of friends, bats and wolves told stories. And maybe now, as a good ghost, it would be able to cross the sky asphalt. And as the ghost was easy to get to heaven, as the smoke, despite the immobility dell'Alibro. And up to the sky was really easy. But to break through the asphalt sky the will was not enough, needed a good reason. And this is Lily, had yet to find it. And it had to shout to be heard. Because few had heard his voice, even when he was alive. He tried to sing, but the effort to bring out the melody brought down to earth. Now that was a shadow on the grass looked like a dark pool of rain. But it was a ghost, pierced by the blades of grass.

of you can give a good reason to go to the little ghost in the world above the sky of asphalt?

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The death of Lily

The sky was still asphalt. The grass was still green, populated only spiders unemployed. The Alibre was a fossil.
And Lily was dead.
Her body was stiff and cold, as the painful sense of immobility that comes down on the timpani in prolongation of silence.
was dead.
mortis is the stiffness made her a white statue, fallen from the pedestal and lying in the grass of the lawn finally, under the sky of asphalt.
Lily was dead.
Death had won on the entry of spiders and bats.
in its orbit, there were still two small mirrors broken. Two opaque mirrors now reflected only the dust and the dust would soon shut down any glare. Perhaps a child, yet, he could write on something with a finger. Because children can not resist the instinct to write in the dust and condensation on the glass. The condensation of tears acted as glue to the powder. Lily was crying, in total silence, while hardly resistance to death. Until the silence had tightened the diaphragm. As long as the apnea, longer and longer, she had breathed her last breath. As the lawn that evaporates in the dawn. As the damp breath of a whale, the strange mammal that none of the mammals 'mammal' would say.
So Lily, the strange creature that lived where no one lives among the living would say there was, was dead.
Lily was dead, nonostante la primavera e tutto quel suo cantare e sbocciare.
Lily era morta, nonostante i telegiornali e i pareri degli esperti sui fatti di cronaca e sulla politica internazionale.
Lily era morta, nonostante le parole, sopra il cielo d'asfalto, si sprecassero copiosamente.
Perché Lily non aveva mai vissuto per questo.
Sotto il cielo d'asfalto non arrivavano le stagioni a cambiare il paesaggio, ma le storie raccontate spingevano i giorni come sopra le stagioni muovono il tempo. E l'immaginazione cambiava forme e colori.
Ma le parole non si erano più posate sull'Alibro per raccontarle delle storie.
E Lily era morta.

Those of you who want to talk to a ghost?

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The awakening of the volcano

Lily's breathing seemed to be to win the game of silence. The intervals between breaths were so rare that only 'time when we get bored' could have looked more lungo.Gli Lily's eyes were drying out and had lost the light. Her pupils were a shattered mirror. Like dreams.
The prolonged absence of the stories had given all'Alibro the weight of lead and lead two wings no longer fly anyone or anything. But those who still had two functioning wings that came out took the tunnel under the sky at a speed of asphalt that runs a shiver down my spine. Who was called the bat? Who, in total silence that seemed, had made me feel? Not the spiders, who had their work cut. Lily gave a reminder of ultrasounds done. A song that seemed to slow a hymn to life. The song of those who try to survive the silence can only be ultrasonic.
The bat knew that his only task at that time was to get Lily to tell her a story. And this was precisely what he did.

There was a volcano that was silent for centuries. His sleep seemed to have the time of eternity. But nothing is forever, even the stones, which seem to turn to dust sooner or later. The volcano was an old man who had fallen asleep with his mouth open and when he woke from his sleep lo fece tossendo, con la gola secca, sputando piccoli grumi incandescenti che prepararono la strada al fiume di lava. Come per chi ha trattenuto e omesso troppe volte qualcosa che era invece da dire, il fiume uscì urlante e inaspettato dalla sua bocca, travolgendo e zittendo tutto quello che gli stava intorno. Come un vecchio che fa andare avanti il mondo come gli pare finché, un giorno, non riesce più a tacere e con la sua saggezza sparge il silenzio sul rumore disordinato che lo circonda, paralizzando tutto perché possa ricominciare da zero, pensando bene ai passi e al terreno da calpestare come fanno i bambini quando imparano a camminare da soli. Perché il vulcano era vecchio and even more than he was old planet.
That now looked like a volcano god punishing or his servant. His hand was not able to fall so far from the village tap. The lava carved a rock garden where there was vegetation, barren land on the moon a carpet. Some animals are grabbing the role of fossils for posterity. The villagers learned under, at least for the days of the eruption, which must be awe and respect to nature. And if after it is forgotten, however, would have been able to remember. That is not quite as 'not knowing'. And the town was aware of his position, which was not as 'central'. It was left under the slope of a volcano.

When the bat was gone, Lily was breathing less often.

Why Lily find the rhythm of life ... perhaps serve your stories?

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The window blind

Again. It had happened again. Alibre paste the pages, there were no stories to tell. Lily is a doll that transformed the ice. A doll that moves only his eyes. That his eyes were so big in the wilderness to hold the whole sky of asphalt that was over her and over her lawn. That the lawn is populated by spiders. That caresses the spiders were imperceptible to Lily, despite the rapidity of whooping otto-multiple zampette nel dispensarle. Che il respiro di Lily fosse così lieve e così raro che se fosse stata in mare, anziché sul prato, avrebbe potuto toccare il fondo degli abissi senza le bombole d'ossigeno. Perché di ossigeno non ce n'era lì intorno, perché 'ossigeno' per Lily sono le storie. E le storie non arrivavano più, da giorni.
Poi, il cielo d'asfalto condusse fino a Lily un pipistrello. E una piccola storia arrivò. Una piccola storia che le riempì i polmoni dandole la forza ancora per un respiro. Che soffiò lieve dalle narici, così lieve che i ragni che le stavano sotto il naso neppure se ne accorsero. Ma Lily sentì una storia. Una piccola storia in un canto di ultrasuoni.

There was a window overlooking a corner in the suburbs. And a corner in the suburbs is not the world. It 'a piece of the extreme edge of the city. What city has the only zip code. The patrons of a suburban corner, day, men are often at rest. And often there is a bar there on the corner. A bar with no kitchen, because at lunch the visitors all go home. But all this happens out of the corner he was in front of that window. On that corner there was only a light pole that was left off the night for several years. The lid of a blind pupil was left open showing only their blindness. A run-down flag. If he were a tree was felled. Without lymph electrical wires parched, baked by the seasons. Roots of a modernity that had no right time, with the entire periphery. Skeletons of unfinished buildings. Old abortions. The family had not grown. The factories had not survived the decade and the suburbs had not opened the doors. The city had been far more than elsewhere.
The window had no glass. It was a geometric patch in memory of the defeat of artificial project. If he had glasses, that window could have thought. Reflecting the movement. Reflect the life of a suburban corner. But the world outside the window was paralizzato. Con lui il futuro della periferia, di conseguenza. E se ora la finestra non rifletteva niente, era forse perché qualcuno, prima, non aveva riflettuto abbastanza. E non era per errore umano. Perché non è completamente vero che mancare di riflessione sia un errore. Non si riflette spesso per la fretta di concludere, per pressione, perché c'è altro da fare. La conclusione diventa l'inconcludenza. Perché la città, che è lontana dagli angoli di periferia, arriva invece nei pensieri con i suoi ritmi e i suoi ingorghi. E accade che si giri a vuoto intorno alle sue rotonde, perdendo la direzione da prendere.

Lily si accorse con ritardo che il pipistrello non era più in volo sopra di lei. He heard only a sudden silence, he returned to fill your head with cotton wool. The silence of the perceptions around her back as if the snow fell, more distance each echo in the world. Lily now had time to reflect. Even from that position still, without thinking, he could lose direction. He must find the way of the voices that tell the stories.

A story for Lily, still breathing ... that could dissolve as the sun consumes the snow in tears. Flakes of tears that melts.

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No show tonight

Among the flock stood a small cub, apparently equal to his fellows. Same hair
gray, same yellow eyes, the same howl. Same loneliness.
to look good, some subtle difference can be grasped easily.
While all his friends went hunting, he ... he was left alone, and lost to observe the gentle colors of a sunset, or the songs of birds away.
In his mind, for whatever error, do not harbor the spirit of a wolf.
It was only the bulky appearance.
and often dressed so well that it seemed one of many.
had a strange gift, if you can call it the gift of reading souls of others and to understand their nuances.
Per questo, nella sua solitudine non era mai solo davvero, che i mille echi che gli rimbombavano i testa erano una ben nutrita compagnia.
E lui ascoltava, e cercava risposte alle domande, o domande alle risposte, senza mai capire.
Coltivando il senso di inutilità di quel suo essere.
Finché un giorno, come un telo che cade, il lupo seppe.
Seppe ascoltare il saluto di chi se ne era andato senza volerlo. In un addio silenzioso.
E afferrò la mano che asciugò le lacrime.
E lasciò che il dolore si sciogliesse in dolce malinconia.
Sweet sweet pain. Lily had melted like a lump of hot coffee in the world. Maybe that's why he was still awake? For the sweet melancholy that the painful dissolution, for all that coffee that day had taken the place of blood that flowed by the gallon in her blood with the same purpose. To keep it alive. Not to put her to sleep, because sleep frightened her. Now he knew that sleep could lead to death. The real one. Not that apparent, from which one awakens. The sleep he needed was in turn need something that it did come from Lily, to caress the head could have done better than the spiders and the Moon. The good sleep he needed a story. A prelude to good night that would make it immune from the monsters that lived under the bed.
Lily was awake to hear that wolf gaze enchanted, fascinated by the world incomprehensibly. Perhaps more understandably by nature. Now curious about his lawn in which only sniffed his presence and that of spiders in burrows just under the ground.
Lily and the wolf looked into his eyes as he grabbed her hand gently with the mouth, pricking just because milk teeth are small pins for the leaves to fall more rapidly, that resist two seasons on the branches. The wolf saw that Lily's eyes were in need of close and dream. Including, for he was able to do that Lily needed a story. With a young voice, but he knew exactly where to start, he began his story. While Lily's already smiling. What

sing the monsters under the bed? Play. What
sing the monsters under the bed? Do not pretend not to hear.
Play.
If you listen to your fears, monsters and fear will disappear.
There was a small owl flew every night on the branch of the cherry tree that borders the east edge of the woods. It was a scary little owl. He feared that the wind was whispering leaves. She feared the light of the moon lit up the clear front of it. He feared the other night birds singing incomprehensible. He feared the lighted windows of the house three hundred yards away from the cherry. She feared everything that he could not explain. It was thought that the world beyond the cherry tree was inhabited by monsters. And perhaps it was. But the monsters that were not were those who believed the owl. And there was something that the owl was not afraid. There was something that the owl was afraid. And they were two eyes that were running, yellow to red, in a terrible roar that accompanied them. Little owl felt my heart in my throat and if he could run away, when the thunder started away, then closer and closer. But he could not escape, remained motionless and breathless as was his grandfather after being stuffed. He closed his eyes as soon as they appeared yellow eyes, and then reopen them when red, they were leaving. Then, one night. The leaves whispered read and hid the little owl, the sight of the stars that fell in cielo. Canti indecifrabili riempivano l'aria calda di una notte di piena estate. Le finestre a trecento passi dal ciliegio non avevano luce da una settimana. Il mostro arrivò, ma placò il suo tuono prima del solito. Il gufo aprì gli occhi e vide due creature che raggiunsero la radura illuminata dalla luna. Si sdraiarono sotto lo spettacolo del cielo, il volto rivolto verso l'alto. Il mostro le aveva partorite e adesso faceva silenzio. I due figli del mostro iniziarono a cantare mentre il piccolo gufo le guardava fisso, come solo i gufi sanno fare. Il canto era dolce e malinconico. Se il gufo avesse saputo cos'era, avrebbe pensato che il loro canto raccontasse l'amore. Quel canto coprì le voci degli uccelli notturni. Il piccolo gufo aveva ora meno paura. Non temeva il mostro che aveva chiuso i suoi occhi gialli. Le finestre erano spente. Le foglie fecero silenzio. La luce della radura gli permise soltanto di vedere quelle creature a pochi passi da lui. E a sentirsi meno solo. Il canto lo avvicinò al buon sonno, mentre arrivava l'alba. Volò via, promettendosi di avventurarsi oltre la notte seguente. Non aveva più paura dei mostri che credeva abitassero oltre il ciliegio. Che, visti da vicino, forse mostri non erano.

Se ascolti la tua paura, mostri e paura spariranno.

Lily dormiva. Gli occhi chiusi senza lacrime. La mano umida. Asciugata dal lupo, che l'aveva accarezzata con leggere testate, quando lei aveva cominciato Dream on, at the end of the story.
Sweet sweet pain. Sweet Sweet Dreams, Little Lily. This
singing dreams. Lily resting on the bed.

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light of memories

A merciless silence had fallen upon Lily, just as heavy as the heaviest of materials can be, without a touchstone.
Lying, helpless, Lily did not have the strength to rise again, wrapped in the blanket of bitter pain. He tried to dream, to think that its wings did soar in the air again, but all she could see and was only darkness.

Se soltanto il lupo tornasse...

Ad un tratto una luce apparve da lontano, piccola come una stella nel cielo. Poi ne spuntò una seconda e poi una terza.
Tante luci come piccole stelle riempirono il cielo, ma non stavano ferme, si muovevano verso Lily che rimaneva sdraiata a contemplarle.
Le luci si facevano sempre più grandi via via che si avvicinavano a Lily, fino a che riuscì a capire cosa erano.
Uno stormo di uccelli fiammeggianti, fenici, si muoveva verso di lei, riempiendo il buio di luce e calore.
Lily si liberò a poco a poco della coperta che la avvolgeva e si rialzò, mentre le ali dell'Alibro ricominciavano to move slowly.
Lily hovered in the air and came to the Phoenicians who surrounded her. One of them took the word:

"Not only we are reborn from our ashes, you too can do so long as there are stories to tell."

The Phoenicians went waving Lily, but the darkness was gone.
time around Lily was the light again.

Yes, Lily felt light as an energy about him that was able to remember the passage of Phoenicians. And it was no surprise that the Phoenicians had arrived for her own, which they had sought and were forced to kindly look up again toward the sky.

Il lupo che se ne era andato dal branco era un grosso lupo molto buono. Ogni sera usciva tardi dalla tana con gli amici del branco che amavano come lui i pub quando si svuotano, verso l'ora della chiusura.
E beve va birra con una calma orientale, che fa ceva sembrare che si stia /stesse celebrando fuori orario una cerimonia del té. Il grosso lupo buono ordina va sempre una pinta di birra, bevendone poco più della metà perché gli basta va anche solo un sorso in più per non avere la sensazione che gliene manchi /mancasse ancora qualche goccia. Il lupo è /era di poche parole, ma sa peva ascoltare e per questo certe volte sta va accucciato per ore facendo parlare gli altri che ne hanno /avevano bisogno. E '/Era un lupo pacifico che trova va sempre il modo di sedare gli altri più agitati regalando perle di ragionevolezza. Con la voce bassa di chi suggerisce senza pretese. E' l'amico di tutti. E forse per questo non parla va mai di sé. Un sorriso per tutti, da quel lupo. Ogni tanto anche un sorriso per sé, davanti allo schermo delle infinite immagini dei Manga.
E Lily, ora che aveva finito le lacrime, riusciva a sorridere davvero soltanto quando pensava al lupo. Perché nei pensieri il lupo c' è ancora. And
is something. It is perhaps more.

And now he knew that the Phoenicians were close. And that the light would not remain only around her, she would also rekindled in his heart. Leaving only a dark space, where they would be screened for all his memories in the light only of their passage on the screen. That is always a light .

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The history of the white wolf in the attic

The silence of the night was ripped apart mercilessly by an acute complaint.

In the depths of the forest, the darkness was absolute.
The sky was just a dark spot, lined with branches reaching like claws ready to grab any unsuspecting prey.
An evil wind lifted the fallen leaves in unexpected swirls and then run away rattled through the trees withered by the cold winter.
Suddenly, a howl.
could not be mistaken.
It was the vibrant voice of a wolf.
A howl. Still a
.
again, but closer.
Closer ...

Lily lying on the lawn, was motionless, inert.
In the rustle of the wind fierce, struggle hard to distinguish the predator lurking stealthily.
listened and trembled.
unarmed.

The wolf was there. White hair and eyes glowing. And great teeth.
Lily, terrified, was unable to move. Almost
was no longer able even to breathe.
saw the eyes of embers of the wolf in his mirror.
sighed weakly and prayed that everything would end soon ...

Ah, if the Alibre
flutter again ... If only you had given me a life ... a story


The wolf approached its toothed jaws to face Lily.
And, without hesitation or regrets, licked his cheek.
Then he lay waiting for her to re-open your eyes ...

Lily, surprised to be still alive, not knowing how to behave, pretended to be dead anyway.
The wolf waited patiently.
Lily opened just one eye.
The wolf smiled.

Basically it was just an old white wolf.
who loved telling stories. For
not feel too lonely.

A voice that Lily had never felt so close, the Wolf. Lily including the words in the sound of howling and what others would do the creepy warmed, however, the heart. But before listening to the wolf looked at him and said nothing, about to begin, to prevent them from losing even a word of his story. He observed that the whiskers were light silk in the moonlight, now that Lily knew what was the silk could make comparisons. And the white hair that framed her face as if nothing else imaginable could be equally worthy. Lily would never say that it was old. But that was just as she, yes, that could understand the immediacy. Because the wolf had not eaten, just as she expected him to do. Because there is only one thing stronger than hunger, and the need the company of 'qualcunoqualsiasi' when loneliness is more serious than the body weight. And there's no meal that they can refresh a desolate heart. Fatigue and boredom or talk or I'll choke. Maybe that's why the wolf would tell stories? Surely this Lily began to listen. To feed the wolf of his attention.

C'era una steppa imbellita dal gelo. Perché nel gelo brillava della luce dei cristalli. Mai nessuno si era avventurato con passi scricchiolanti a disturbare il suo manto. Su di lei correvano soltanto il cielo e le stagioni. Correvano sembrando immobili. Correvano perché il cielo e le stagioni corrono ovunque, trainati dal tempo che nessuno può domare. Neppure i lupi passavano attraverso quella steppa. Perché i lupi ne avevano il rispetto che si deve ai luoghi sacri. E anche i lupi, come tutte le altre specie che non vi si erano mai avventurate, ne avevano un po' timore.
Quella steppa si diceva fosse la dimora dell'Inverno e del sonno della Natura. Per questo neppure un lupo aveva mai avuto l'ardire di ululare nelle sue vicinanze. Perché non si può forzare la Natura al risveglio quando la Natura decide che è il momento di riposare. E soltanto il vento, il vento operaio del tempo, occupato a spingere il cielo e a consumare tutte le cose, avrebbe potuto raccontare cosa c'era oltre la steppa. E forse se anche noi
potremmo provare a indovinarlo è perché respirando ci nutriamo della sua aria. Forse, così, qualcosa del vento resta in noi, come un seme della sua conoscenza delle cose .
Perché sappiamo che accanto alla dimora dell'Inverno sorge il giardino della Primavera, dove tutto quello che dormiva si risveglia. Un ritorno alla vita, attraverso il sonno. Una morte apparente che ristora la forza di ogni nature. And each has a natural cycle, a magic circle to go. And the wolves would never have walked on the circle, which matured in the summer to blow up, and scattering the ashes of the leaves are eaten in the fall. Because the wolves had respect for sacred places. It sniffed the presence of the invisible circle, because the wolves breathe the wind.

Lily surprise again felt the heat in his veins. It was the heat of the breath of the wolf to have it saved. Was it the story had told her. It was the certainty that he would return to her, though now he could clearly make out only the tail. As he was going.

And which of you will return by Lily to tell a story?

few hours after sending this post. My pack has a wolf less. The chill has settled on every word that I can not say. To write, either.
Silence. Silence.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ....

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On the lawn there was already a crowd of spiders around Lily. Pats multiples of eight legs. To push the blood that the heart does not pump more nearly. In a growing pale as the Moon appears and remains in the sky all night, getting bigger and brighter as the darkness deepens around. The Alibre motionless, her eyes but still had life, inspecting the sky in search of the arrival of a bat. It came off the bat, the wings like a black cloak blown by the wind.
The bat was still a story for Lily. What the spiders did not hear, because the spiders can not hear ultrasound.
But Lily, paralysis, had heightened the sense of hearing, pain survival stories that only they could give her.
And the story began to resonate around the bat. It sounded just for her. The rest of the world would say that there was still silence.

There was an attic covered with dust from the very floorboards. If someone had entered would laciato footprint every step, but they were many years that no one went in and looked in the attic still even dust. Nothing changed in there for years, if not the light that came through the small window in the wall opposite the door. During the day, when the sun was out, the rays that came from moving a cone beam forced over the design of a small rug. Rosebuds waiting to bloom in the spring. Small birds plumage indigo expecting the heat to blend the wings and get rid of dust in a carousel of short flights. This was under the rays of the sun entered the window. This was the secret of the attic. And to this day the attic smelled of roses. And that is why the air seemed to echo the song of exotic birds. Maybe that's why nobody came in for years, because everything was locked in the attic seemed a curse. But it was a miracle. And when the sun set and the window came in the moonlight, the buds are closed and small birds returning property, with his head under his wing. The indigo was dying in the black of night. Roses took the color of dust. But peace remained in the air, the peace of a world rests.
A world that had not the courage of curiosity than out of the attic. The wonder of the discovery of a miracle is a gift that must be earned. Challenging timori razionali che si arrendono all'inconsueto, forse nella speranza che la polvere possa fargli da tomba. Ma la vita è prepotente e ha infinite nature. E quella del mondo fuori dalla soffitta era una natura domata, artificiale nei ritmi e nelle funzioni. Mentre nella soffitta regnava la libertà e la meraviglia. Nella soffitta, se qualcuno fosse entrato avrebbe lasciato soltanto qualche orma nella polvere. Mentre, fuori, la polvere faceva da tomba al mondo.

Lily fece un grosso respiro, forse un sospiro. I ragni si allontanarono veloci, come in fuga dal vortice di un tornado. I polmoni di Lily si riempirono dell'aria dei giardini nel mese di Maggio. Ma l'Alibro non frullò le sue pagine come fossero ali, in una giostra of short flights. If the Alibre was a small bird, it could be said that still held his head under his wing. In the silence that followed the end of the story of the bat. In the silence of sleep the rest of the world. While two black wings fled away under the sky of asphalt, as the mantle of someone who turned his back, goes away in a hurry.


The silence of the tomb of the world is Lily ... Do you go out for a story from the dust ...