To better address a corridor of the hospital you have to look into the void, in that he is somewhere between the eyes and nose. The colors around you - blue, white, gray and green - turn them into stones of no value, beads expendable in exchange for food and indigenous women. Odor of alcohol and I do something significant and delicate, like an origami swan that has never flown. Nurses shuffling around, that's their job, goblins and sweet smiling euchessine for the soul flooded relatives. Here, you have come. The room is the one they are imitating, where you're annoying like an old uncle who comes to see you on Sunday morning, smoking and MS reciting of sadness when he was happy.
Your mother smiles, because she thinks you came to take her home.
Not so, however. It's never the case, because the end, if you think about it, write them all the same.
Then the combs carefully pour the water outgassing and tell how it is good to be almost gone. Then you turn around and see. And your life revolves around that thing, your brain starts to make the flag as a lifeguard thin clinging to a wooden pole on the beach Cerenova.
The drop of the infusion.
is so slow that it can not serve at all. But your mind is now bright and articulate a concept, a cross answer, and you put on that killer smile of a poet.
The drop is too fast for the human eye.
No, we did not: it is a different.
The drop is like the minute hand of the clock, fast and slow at the same time. Growing drop of saline, boil, drip into the tubing, enters nell'agocannula, it explodes in his veins. Nothing is faster, no slower, anything that distorts and tortures more time.
Look at the comb and is full of hair.
The table is full of magazines.
All around, a sudden, there's too much stuff that goes fast and you discover that in spite of yourself be part of an MTV generation: spectacular images, no content, advertising that interrupts the music, you make up your machine, you build a house that looks like to a ship, we'll talk tomorrow.
And your mother, who wants to talk all at once, has always been faster than you, your lateral thinking, your lack of media stimulation. She cleared
who still had not finished eating, did the dishes when you were sleeping, spending time in those deaths that are lined up between the toilet seat and a call for football. You
games, carrying the ball and T-shirts.
She does not play any more.
And time in the hospital, is still a prisoner of the infusion.
Too fast, too slow.
too much for you, who have normal shoulders and reluctance to imagine what is beyond the break-advertising.
But a trick you do, you are born premature, rubbing a gynecologist, your father and the astrologer.
Too fast, too slow, too furious.
Greetings and you're away. Viewed from behind, you look small and tired, but you're only a relative who arrived too late to ask the doctor something they already know.
You're a drop in the drip, a radio controlled alarm clock, a calendar page from butcher of the old year, with over a note written by your mother
sugar, salt, baby food for cats, chips pai.
These are the things that do more harm, why should you know them and do not know.
Lorenzo Bartoli does not have its own biography, but he is writing one.
We can tell you that an asset is a writer with three novels ("Dolls", "Overminder", "Hearts by Bar"), which is a comic book writer ("John Doe", "Detective Dante") and that in Leisure is the artistic director dell'Eur Editorial.
THIS is his blog.
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