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 first track (with a good book to tell) 
all the fault of the Wolf. The Wolf knocked
from above the sky of asphalt and has opened a parenthesis in the long history of Lily.
Here.
(Now that I read for a living, I remember happy when I read for pleasure. And with the hope that return times, because even if they pay you to read the stories of the Winx is mortifying, I open a parenthesis that looks like a window on the past, who arrives from afar, but that goes up a few years ago. And I do not know if it will be five books, because they are in front of the shelves of my library and it makes me want to pull down everything that is upon us.
The first memory of a childhood book that changed my life goes back to the cover of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer . While my grandmother, in my indifference, I went Little Women, I spent the afternoons to catch lizards and break stones for quartz veins found in the imaginary precious gold. A summer to tear my pants climbing trees. A search for someone in the neighborhood that would make me afraid, just looking to find the courage to entrargli in the garden by jumping from the wall. And finally, what on earth can be more fascinating that enter the garden of the convent of cloistered nuns ... and being chased by the gardener! That summer, the dolls were finally covered with dust.
Then it is dyed yellow forever. The Yellow Boys . Nancy Drew made me An investigation into grass, actually a little pain in the neck, which dogged the neighborhood and was responsible for killings of cats that cracks in the area for unnatural death. With my friends had founded a group of investigation, we found a small toy kit to detect fingerprints (DNA testing was still far away) and we invented a sign language to communicate in remote ambushes, until we dotammo even walkie-talkie! Ten Little Indians and nightmares, in adolescence, when the dream is just me and my father and my father was then the murderess. Or not?
The teenager becomes a high school student and discovers something bigger of her passion for literature: Nana by Emile Zola, The basement of the Vatican by André Gide (Lafcadio are still engaged, you know?) Grows Older by Italo Svevo (Yes, Antonio .. . ...), I novels for years Pirandello that lasted just over a month and The rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge , closing up Ode to the West Wind Shelley.
Free to read, finally:
Dino Buzzati, even all, but especially The shop of mystery .
Dylan Thomas, and there is nothing to add for him. Derek Raymond
by And he died with his eyes open to My name was Dora Suarez .
Paco Ignacio Taibo II, so the yellow , but especially the intimate biography of Che Guevara: without losing the tenderness .
Leo Malet and his trilogy noir, especially Life is a disgusting and The sun is not for us .
Dmitri Bakin, a unique collection of short stories, homeland , and total admiration. Gaetano
Blacks, master of the short story, even short: Forget grandma's , that made me want to write the check and discovered that the stories can stand in half a page.
Giovanni Arduino (link here to one side, on this blog), Mai like you, who taught me that you can tell without going into facts, writing of colors and emotions without fear of languid, giving the languid a painful taste.
Saer and the recent release of The survey, oriented with the punctuation in the vortex of concentric periods.
Sergei Dovlatov, The suitcase and The march of the lonely (Bunkr and thanks for allowing me to walk every day for the world gratified by this loneliness, which is not alienation or strangeness, but only a part of me, in good company of others who do not crown your skepticism, but they can not live otherwise).
close the brackets. But the brackets can re-open very easily, just touch the right key!).
The work shown here is Giampiero Cleaned. The invitation is to seek a virtual gallery.
Lily was a bit 'he thought, thought to be a full season. 
