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 ...
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