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?