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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