Now that the evening descends from the first gallery of the sky over the audience Lombard, hundreds of lights illuminate the streets under the pretext of giving her comfort. Streetlights are to pay to the cold light beams to form a funnel through the streets, sweating are signs that try to bring you to your attention in their microcosm. And there are many red lights of cars ordered under the orders of another red light, the severe traffic lights scattered on the path every day.
is these that strike me most.
seem many lights are on, so many small signs of something wrong. The same feeling that tells Moby in his song a few years ago.
The radio in the queue instead passes and James Blunt's "1973." The exchanges of fresh English temporarily allow me to attach a name known and slivers of thoughts scattered among the intricacies of the text. In this flow of words bouncing a recurrent phrase, that "here we go again " which reminds me a nasty broken promises, and long silences. In a now-ancient
gentle autumn I had heard very similar words, spoken in Italian, here we go again .
History repeats itself in strange ways. We are history. We are strange.
three autumns have passed by that phrase, but here we go again it remained an idea, a balloon suspended in the sky, more and more distant horizon, and finally disappeared, swallowed up by time as a flood of memories aground.
dry as autumn leaves in a park.
Where colors clash hot for a season that heralds the cold, as if they wanted to move away.
I do not know why, but the falling leaves remind me of the first football oratory. I remember when I played my mother would pick the leaves off the trees on that street, were used to cover the garden, so he had a bit 'of frost.
I think that memories fade and everything is cleared. Something remains the pages clear and dark pages, but they are only signs of a defective tire.
has settled on the glass of the car tires a dry leaf, the first of this fall.
I think there should not be that leaf. Everything must be in place, and this leaf is in the wrong place. I remember as a child I felt this sensation, to feel in the wrong place, and it made my whole implode enterprising shyness.
A shot of the wiper and the leaf is blown away, but I know not to leave her alone, for soon the leaves will fall further in her company and train a branch weakens.
Today I also deleted some, as the leaves fall from the tree. Now maybe I will understand
I forget what it means .
is these that strike me most.
seem many lights are on, so many small signs of something wrong. The same feeling that tells Moby in his song a few years ago.
The radio in the queue instead passes and James Blunt's "1973." The exchanges of fresh English temporarily allow me to attach a name known and slivers of thoughts scattered among the intricacies of the text. In this flow of words bouncing a recurrent phrase, that "here we go again " which reminds me a nasty broken promises, and long silences. In a now-ancient
gentle autumn I had heard very similar words, spoken in Italian, here we go again .
History repeats itself in strange ways. We are history. We are strange.
three autumns have passed by that phrase, but here we go again it remained an idea, a balloon suspended in the sky, more and more distant horizon, and finally disappeared, swallowed up by time as a flood of memories aground.
dry as autumn leaves in a park.
Where colors clash hot for a season that heralds the cold, as if they wanted to move away.
I do not know why, but the falling leaves remind me of the first football oratory. I remember when I played my mother would pick the leaves off the trees on that street, were used to cover the garden, so he had a bit 'of frost.
I think that memories fade and everything is cleared. Something remains the pages clear and dark pages, but they are only signs of a defective tire.
has settled on the glass of the car tires a dry leaf, the first of this fall.
I think there should not be that leaf. Everything must be in place, and this leaf is in the wrong place. I remember as a child I felt this sensation, to feel in the wrong place, and it made my whole implode enterprising shyness.
A shot of the wiper and the leaf is blown away, but I know not to leave her alone, for soon the leaves will fall further in her company and train a branch weakens.
Today I also deleted some, as the leaves fall from the tree. Now maybe I will understand
I forget what it means .
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