Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Reason 3.0 License Number
At least a greeting ...
I have to leave! Alf does not find anything else to read
incognito ;-) It is just a period "somewhat well." There is nothing that really do not go, but an overwhelming feeling of not having any control of my time and not being able to do nothing, absolutely nothing, of what I want. There is time only for what "I". And that depresses me a bit. A little bit long. Okay, it will pass. 
I have to leave! Alf does not find anything else to read
incognito ;-) It is just a period "somewhat well." There is nothing that really do not go, but an overwhelming feeling of not having any control of my time and not being able to do nothing, absolutely nothing, of what I want. There is time only for what "I". And that depresses me a bit. A little bit long. Okay, it will pass.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
World's Greatest Dad Na Ygoow
The Raven of the Red Giant Pussy
Here, even under the sky was the summer asphalt. Even the ghost of Lily was unaware that the crossing was less dense than air, there was no sign of moisture, and its caressing warmth seemed to give the impression that the blood still flowed in his veins. Rose as lightly as if it were a balloon, accompanied by butterflies and reached a golden thread that shone like wheat in the sun. Who knows what story he could tell a yarn so fine, he would have thought Lily. But the ghosts do not think, just remember the ghosts.
Along the road leading alla città c'era un campo di grano di cui non si vedeva la fine e sembrava quasi che semplicemente, ad un certo punto, diventasse cielo e risalisse a contornare le nuvole, come un'onda azzurra e anomala. Il gatto scovava i topi nel grano, girando per tutto quel campo, e così passava la giornata. Qualche cornacchia temeraria, che se ne infischiava di quella faccia da pirla dello spaventapasseri, talvolta pagava l'ardire tra le zampe del gatto. E il gatto era ben contento che non ci fossero solo i topi. Perché i topi lo annoiavano. I piccoli topi grigi di campagna, che proprio così grigi avrebbero potuto prendere la metropolitana ogni mattina, ventiquattrore in pugno, per raggiungere una stanza dove la luce arrivava soltanto dal neon. 'Ché sun, rain, blue skies, white clouds and dark as lead they would never seen by those under the glass ceiling, sealed and zozzerie stucco, sandblasted smoke, dust and sweat. And the cat, not only to kill her boredom, paw the end of the mice. There was one crow, one that croaked most of all, which seemed to spit in the face to the world their cry, wheat and even the cat. As he was black, shiny feathers in the sun, it was smart or lucky, one crow always eluded him and went away shouting derision that seemed to spread all over the field, far field, at some point, it seemed that simply become sky and the clouds rose up again to wrap like a wave blue and anomalous. A days, in which the grain appeared to have taken the form of so many great filters of cigarettes smoked by a giant cat, with long sight and discovered that the grain was gone, he saw the crow from a distance and went to meet , the most arrogant of her. But where was the giant? Its passage was clear in the cat, the form it had taken the grain and the appearance of crow croaked the horizon so strong that it seems so close when he was still far away. Yes, because that was the crow of the Giant and we had the audacity to cry so much derision. The existence of the giant was known to the cat, had been raccontanta the point of death from a gray mouse that he had legs and was thrown in his face with his last breath, like a curse that he would be showered on him sooner or later, because the gray mice delegate always revenge. And then, when the cat saw the hooded feared the arrival of the Giant as the arrival of the end of his days. And if that day was going to crow so bold, it was because he did not want that death is announced, but it's raining on me like a sudden storm, a clear sky. The cat was not like are the gray mice, who put his own death, as his life in the hands of someone bigger than them. And what he liked, the cat, was that the giant was buried with him in its footprint, even the small gray mice who always ran to the field as if they had something important to do in a part of the city where the subway does not reach. And they did not have time. Indeed, as if time was already over. As if the giant had already arrived.
The butterflies disappeared suddenly around the balloon. Lily had read another story of the infinite network that occupied his sky like a cloud fringed by high pressure of the summer weather. Lily was now just a ghost, with his memories. 
Here, even under the sky was the summer asphalt. Even the ghost of Lily was unaware that the crossing was less dense than air, there was no sign of moisture, and its caressing warmth seemed to give the impression that the blood still flowed in his veins. Rose as lightly as if it were a balloon, accompanied by butterflies and reached a golden thread that shone like wheat in the sun. Who knows what story he could tell a yarn so fine, he would have thought Lily. But the ghosts do not think, just remember the ghosts. Along the road leading alla città c'era un campo di grano di cui non si vedeva la fine e sembrava quasi che semplicemente, ad un certo punto, diventasse cielo e risalisse a contornare le nuvole, come un'onda azzurra e anomala. Il gatto scovava i topi nel grano, girando per tutto quel campo, e così passava la giornata. Qualche cornacchia temeraria, che se ne infischiava di quella faccia da pirla dello spaventapasseri, talvolta pagava l'ardire tra le zampe del gatto. E il gatto era ben contento che non ci fossero solo i topi. Perché i topi lo annoiavano. I piccoli topi grigi di campagna, che proprio così grigi avrebbero potuto prendere la metropolitana ogni mattina, ventiquattrore in pugno, per raggiungere una stanza dove la luce arrivava soltanto dal neon. 'Ché sun, rain, blue skies, white clouds and dark as lead they would never seen by those under the glass ceiling, sealed and zozzerie stucco, sandblasted smoke, dust and sweat. And the cat, not only to kill her boredom, paw the end of the mice. There was one crow, one that croaked most of all, which seemed to spit in the face to the world their cry, wheat and even the cat. As he was black, shiny feathers in the sun, it was smart or lucky, one crow always eluded him and went away shouting derision that seemed to spread all over the field, far field, at some point, it seemed that simply become sky and the clouds rose up again to wrap like a wave blue and anomalous. A days, in which the grain appeared to have taken the form of so many great filters of cigarettes smoked by a giant cat, with long sight and discovered that the grain was gone, he saw the crow from a distance and went to meet , the most arrogant of her. But where was the giant? Its passage was clear in the cat, the form it had taken the grain and the appearance of crow croaked the horizon so strong that it seems so close when he was still far away. Yes, because that was the crow of the Giant and we had the audacity to cry so much derision. The existence of the giant was known to the cat, had been raccontanta the point of death from a gray mouse that he had legs and was thrown in his face with his last breath, like a curse that he would be showered on him sooner or later, because the gray mice delegate always revenge. And then, when the cat saw the hooded feared the arrival of the Giant as the arrival of the end of his days. And if that day was going to crow so bold, it was because he did not want that death is announced, but it's raining on me like a sudden storm, a clear sky. The cat was not like are the gray mice, who put his own death, as his life in the hands of someone bigger than them. And what he liked, the cat, was that the giant was buried with him in its footprint, even the small gray mice who always ran to the field as if they had something important to do in a part of the city where the subway does not reach. And they did not have time. Indeed, as if time was already over. As if the giant had already arrived.
The butterflies disappeared suddenly around the balloon. Lily had read another story of the infinite network that occupied his sky like a cloud fringed by high pressure of the summer weather. Lily was now just a ghost, with his memories.
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