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.
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.
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.
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 
