Needless to deceive the few glimmers of warm light, the dying summer, it is autumn now, and I feel the cold air evening. This air restless and deaf and dumb hissing at the windows.
are days that I write and every time I seem to lose a part of me, I rip that vein that I saved from mild depression. Depression no-write. Pass the minutes on the phone, hours of conversation at dinner parties, the partyes organized the photographic research, the difficulties of being companion, and then I go back to literature.
Sforni sentences and pages almost every night, scribbled notes on a pad with closed eyes, while the world outside my room sleeping. In the morning they are not that childish scribbles, geometric shapes and symbols, indecipherable, try to remember and fill in "fair copy" in the diary.
Who knows why God kisses me in the middle of the night.
I should work on an article, but my head is elsewhere:
1. I wonder about human relationships
2. all'inaffidabilità think of some categories of trade
3. I have a overly poetic sense of life
past about 90 minutes, the time of a football game without recovery, looking at the ceiling and trying to give me answers, I feel a little / huge empty
1. I miss terribly the brilliant philosophical conversations about life (...)
2. I need to see my first psychologist
3. I fear, smiling, I left very early
said / wrote this, I leave my blog with a thought, no less pessimistic than many of my others, and that is the belief that no one cares for anyone else. We are selfish. No exceptions. The more pure altruist is one who helps the next to compensate for his need to give, to feel accepted and at peace with himself. With the illusion of having a clear conscience, you can sleep peaceful dreams.
And so ...
And so ...
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