Gerry Robertson Care Homes

Ordinary Chronicles - Simone Bernardini

"Andrea, pass me the salt."
The child, with eyes still swollen pouting expression for response receipt, he stretched his hand towards the plump and pink salt. It is fun to imagine that a white soldier strutting, neatly aligned in the center of the large sunflower drawn on the tablecloth.
"I know that tomorrow is your birthday - I went with Alex soft voice, her father - and you want a gift, a wonderful gift. The mother did not tell you that you will not, in fact. You just said that if you want your gift - his voice took on a different register of Alexander, an octave higher - not You can make more tantrums like today, you know?. By now you're an adult child, you should get busy too and help us when we ask you something. " The round face
Andrea showed no signs of changing expression. The small bright eyes of the child, however, reveals the first rays of peace with her parents, soon to burst. Viola, an expert in deciphering the terms of her child, jumped at the opportunity to penetrate into the breach that was slowly opening.
"Love, you know we love you. When you do that make us suffer. I do not want to see you cry. "
"Yes mom, but I ..."
"Let's do this: hurry up and finish the chicken your plate, so even after you take the cake. "
"Really?" The baby's face broke into a beaming smile.
"And tonight you will receive the first gift: you can stay up with mom and dad to watch television. Do you want? "
" Yes ". The child let out a cry enthusiastic, hands raised to heaven in triumph and tears shortly before forgotten, dry in the sun enthusiasm. Sbrana the rest of the chicken in front of him, and proud mother showed him the empty plate.
"Can I take the cake?"
"It is love."
"Two slices
" A. Do not overdo it, you'll be sick. "
After the generous portion of chocolate cake, Andrea felt much better. The dismay of a moment before was only a dim memory. The excitement and joy for the day was going to be shaking it all up Angles secret corners of her tiny little body lilac.
It almost did not believe it, despite the late hour and the barn owls who already sang the lullaby to the moon, was seated at her favorite place in the midst of mom and dad, to watch TV. The program that was on TV was a bit 'boring, with a fair-haired lady who spoke to men who, from what he could understand, were locked inside a house in another place, and received money to be there, and complained that he did not want to be there. Who knows who we had them locked up. Too bad they can not change the channel. But was fine. It was late, was still up, was in the midst of his parents, and tomorrow would be his birthday. Who knows what would have been present. He hoped that his parents had understood. Had told her a million times, in all possible ways, until exasperated. She cried and screamed, pleaded, quarreled with them, just like this afternoon. He wanted the shirt that Brazilian footballer. That shirt pretty, shiny, striped red and black, the number and the name of his idol behind printed with golden letters. That shirt, once worn, would made strong, and his friends could not have been more tease. Gliel'avrebbe made to see him. He was sure. He showed them what was true. He wanted that shirt so much. And perhaps tomorrow would be his. But now there was the gentle warmth of the breast of his mother, whom he had placed on his head. And the caresses of her father, the soft touch on the skinny legs resting in the lap of daddy. And the sweet feeling of letting go of the off slowly passing away, to zero in that heat. Women
Nilde always got up early in the morning, when the first rays caressing her eyes, whispering that a new day had come and she was going to receive, from a large ceremonies. Nilde then threw his feet off the bed, always the right first, and he took off his bonnet with flowers, a gift from her deceased husband. She was a widow for the past twenty years, and loneliness does not weigh much. He knew how to deal with it. He had found other men, or perhaps wanted to find. Had few true friends of which he considered as sisters. He knew, however, many people. It's not that she liked the people, nor that he loved her too. She was a pious woman, God-fearing, who spent much of his time working on small items that sold at local market. The poor were then recessed for the poor of the parish. He loved to read, and often did so on the small balcony of his house, with the radio on. She liked that position. Every now and then stop reading and just moved his gaze to the small square that was opposite the house. It was nice to have tabs on everything that happened across the street. Nilde observe and record, with his eye and his memory iron. Could mention the passers-by, one by one. There was the fat lady with curls, every morning at eight o'clock brought his grandson to school. There was the seller of sweets, with the small banquet and colored popcorn machine. There was a couple of old people walking hand in hand every night. Old people, yes. They must have had at least ten years older than her, this was safe. There was the plumber, with his white van. I wonder if they were true stories about plumbers. His had never made advances. Humanity's most colorful looked under her balcony, laboring in the rhythms of modern life. Snorted, ran, talked, talked, loved each other and hated each other, laughing and laughing. It worked. Not everyone. There was a family that did not respect the unwritten rules that are used to living in modern society.
Mother, father and son. A family of vagrants.
Last night went to dinner at the soup kitchen, in the palace at the bottom of the square. Nilde had seen them for a moment removing his eyes from the novel she was reading, a story of Allende. About hour after they went out and sat on the bench in front of the appliance store. The adults at the sides and the child in their midst. He seemed excited about the baby. She moved, got up, sat down and came up shooting. In the end he was lying between his parents until a couple of hours later, he was not asleep. Nilde, interrupting the reading again, he had occasion to note that the parents had the baby lying on the big board on which the family slept. He had been lying in their midst.
slept on the ground, like cattle.
This morning, at eight, father, mother and son were already begging on the road. They must be able to convince the child to give them a hand. Yesterday he refused, making noisy tantrums that they had almost stopped reading. I wonder what they had done to convince him. Surely they had beaten. Indecency that was like two parents could keep a young child in the middle of a street, denying even the most ordinary care. They had a nice little saying all those distinguished gentlemen of charities engaged in social work just to show off themselves.
"It is the fault of the state - had once said a man handing out rags of the homeless - will not ensure that everyone can live a dignified life. It is the fault of those who govern - he had weighed in - which is not affected in any way the lives of these people. "
"The fault lies with those who find themselves in this situation - she had responded angrily - who chooses not wanting to do anything in his life. If they want to work would not be so shabby. "
"But ma'am, excuse me, I really think that those who have nothing to eat and sleep in the open is not a victim of circumstances? Do you really think that the problem is only of will? Do you think these people are happy with their life? "
" I told him I certainly did not end up like this. "
was still this idea, and the words in defense of the homeless man had done nothing but confirm his thoughts. Each chose his path. Who lived a life as homeless if it was sought. People who did not want to do nothing but get drunk and live off of someone else.
Nilde appeared again on the balcony, to water the little jasmine decorating the air with its pungent smell. Beyond the road, in the square, a scene so absurd as to seem unreal, almost grotesque. The father of that family was homeless at the banquet at the end of the square, and was buying a shirt. One of those hanging out of the football teams. Unbelievable. They do not have money or to feed to their child or to send him to school. They had no money to dress or to make him sleep in a place repaired. They had nothing. And the only money he had managed somehow to scrape together throw them away like that? The woman did not see us more, it was time to say enough. She would go to the police, to report to parents. Child abuse. Basta. There was nothing else to do. But how was it possible? It was an insult to every human right. That child could not grow well. Who knows what would have to. He put a coat
quickly, and descended the stairs quickly. He opened the front door, and headed towards the road. But all of a sudden the earth disappeared beneath his feet, and the world began to turn them around. It fell into ruin on the floor. My God, help. People after her, ignoring her. Everyone was so concerned with their own thoughts. Did not see her. Or did not want to see it. Help, please. The items, heavy and could not get out of the mouth. He was too weak. Somebody, somebody help me. I beseech you. Nothing. It was there, on the ground, with entire humanity around pretending not to notice. The eyes, slowly, were closing. The buzzing in my ears grew louder. The last memory, before passing out, were the excited voices of a man and a woman who is nearer and nearer. And the hand of a child. A child sheathed in a striped shirt. Red and black. Bastards. They would steal the necklace around his neck. It was safe. The chain that had given her husband the day after they met. That chain around his neck for a lifetime. The hand closer and closer to his neck. Her eyes were veiled. And the copious tears fell when the gap with a quick little hand, gently, he began to caress her forehead.

Methatextrate For Cervical Radiculopathy

Light My Fire - Michael Lancione

Intro
the factory.
Darkness and backlighting. Bundles here and there, powder. It's still dark.
The shadows pass and you miss it when it is outside your field of vision.
A couple of great big rooms. Other dust, yet. And the rooms in the old office, where you start to see mattresses. Old ones, which does not use any more, thrown to the ground, twisted, without reason. Go ahead, and suddenly you start other small worlds. Bedroom with the window open to the sky, the crumbling concrete, mattresses and two here, one more in there, with blankets on. A squared. A plate connected
not know where. Chess, a transistor radio. There are no shoes, no clothes. Wooden planks on the floor. Tubes of black plastic and mixtures. Some bag, shoulder bags and backpacks, and even the room after mattresses, and blankets, and dust again, around and inside things.
The high walls of the factory that was, the broken-down couches in the world where we are. And it all starts to spin.
And that's what, only that, when the shadows seem to increase, the moment when you know you should exit. A slap yourself from the sun is there, ready to make you accountable for what you got. On the threshold. The house of many.
The city, home of many.

Light My Fire
The problem here is not sleep. The question is: sleep is the problem. But it's the same thing
, you say, you who listen, you who do go the words in the ears as bracelets, colored dots, between the fingers. But falling asleep and sleep are two things very differently. The first part of the acts of: performing the action, you have given your best, and nothing can change the outcome. Sleep, and you gave. Falling asleep is instead an ongoing challenge, is becoming, is back that claim alone moisture. It's shoulder with the skin that comes off to rub against the jacket of cotton, often, hard. Are the seams between a nerve and another: sleep is the action that is repeated, continuous, without reaching its end, its release morphine. Falling asleep, not sleeping, is the problem. In particular, here. Down here where the moisture of the dark corners is the same tarred in the corners folded like a sheet greasy and kind of rip your mattress thrown on the floor. Where the blanket and the sheet are below the dress to take you all day. Where there Hassam, snoring like a camel walking distance from where you and Maurizio is heading to farts, symphonies ethyl worth Goldberg - a smell of burnt pizza and visceral, stomach cat and benzene, piss and Piquette armpit dog. That stings the nostrils. From which you can not separate. The walls are high, open windows, because routes, spread variance, it is you can turn around and turn around again, whine, snort, close your eyes and open them to repeat - but no: sleep is the tail of the butt-fuck the football tournament of the gypsies, that of cotton candy and popcorn, that tend our hands, you tend to iron, but you never got to grab a child. It is a continuous test. With their feet cut, wet and painful - not that the shoes are removed, ever. The underwear itchy. And the body, that's true, what you feel only when you are alone, which is cold in the bone between his nerves, bundles, veins ... that when it comes to the skin has already made all the miles he has to do, cold . And you have emptied, gnawed. After leaving there, soaked, storage of milk and meat of hunger in an abandoned factory as a boulder in the post-industrial city.
But sleep, of course, is not the main issue. It hurts on my back, but not all.
There is another, another issue that comes when you have not got the tail, when the gypsy it makes your finger when you're not asleep. The question is simple, clear pure and bright. What to do? Scanditelo well. Passatevelo between the lower lip, the upper central incisors, and tongue carezzatelo a little: What - do? Do not fall asleep fall asleep. Drink, do not drink (not for another: there is none). It's cold and at the same time there is the smell of hot steam piss you cradle factory, floor, vomit. What - do? Pull the blanket. It's a great first act. Slightly move the legs, immobile, paralyzed. Tell him that you have to get up, tell him now, so a couple of minutes you have received and will be set in motion. And in the meantime, think. Passing a hand over his face. See that is a map of others, but no surprise. Place one hand in his pocket, a self-reflexive, as deluded. And stay - sometimes it happens, it is rare but it happens - surprise. The hand, believe it or not, he found something. The first finger has touched, did not believe for a fuck, there was a moment of tension-empty but then the other fingers, as a network over the fish, sudden embrace, rejoicing at the stadium, there were about slings. The hand has found ... a cigarette there, in the recess of the brown coat color shit and greyness, a cigarette all alone, wrinkled and scared. A cigarette useful, fantastic special.

a cigarette in response to our second major dilemma. What - do? Get up, get out of the factory, move the dust around, walk like a zombie until the next morning ... and smoke. Smoking. C'avete never thought about the sound of the word smoking? He knows he is free. Doors, sea view, a closed eye to the edge of the next dream to fulfill. Other than lung cancer. Smoking. It is the best apology for the death that this life here, now, tonight, we can give.
And we go out into the street then. Let the factory and her wet black behind aggiustiamoci jacket shivering and here we are, we are already on the sidewalk. High in the blue sky beyond the buildings, two lights of street lamps and a soft silence immoral. We bring the cigarette to his lips - the first contact is great; is still closed, young and fresh: the language of the wet, you know of licorice - and start walking. Where to? On the street, but with a goal. Standing bent or stomach pains, head banging or vibrating back, it does not matter: never go in the street at random. The time, you can not know.
will be three, five. It's morning and night, you hear it from the air, sparkling water that is more flat.
The first step is therefore to breakfast. We begin to walk towards Via Nizza, where the sisters give us the milk that sucks, and for us this is a compliment to the nuns did, because without that milk I could not shit, you could not shit, she's so sweet, could not shit: so thanks to the cows to milk and nuns. However, the important thing is not the nuns or the
panettone in August, but the central fact is that there will be forty minutes on foot to do, and then
... we have plenty of time to smoke. We stopped a second to savor the moment of ignition. The adjustments to the lip, taking it to the dock, moving it as we see there, lying ready, with her legs spread and a smile in the middle ... and put a hand into his pocket to find the lighter. A pause. She smiles plan. In another pocket in his pants. She looks at us sideways, smiling less. Quick: you look in the flap, in a pocket yet. She is afraid, brushes her hair, and covers the breast. In his shirt torn in the cuff, but nothing. She is cold, and even angry - suddenly vanishes from the bed, leaves, leaves the room. The door disappears, and it also takes away the sheet. We are just us ... we in the street at night with a cigarette in hand, great hope, great love, but no lighter.
Living on the street brings you to know the city in its every corner. Learn about the sidewalk, the wax off the corners, the cobblestones and street lights. Different from one another. Walk at night and hear only the cuts in the feet and the pus. The green bins are open and their stench, which is a continuous digestion of other people's bellies. Well-being of others. Learn about the benches, fountains, discount bed where the bottom is always more
Piquette: pack green, yellow, and the words written white table wine. And you know that the meal is irrelevant, really. Do you know where are the hookers, drug dealers. You know where to sell a stolen mobile phone, where a sim unlock. Where to place their coats taken to the store of clothing.
Where to hide your bag in the floor of the station. The city know the stars you see the openings between the buildings, its broken-down bus and rain which always taste the same. A purple saporedi immature. But a cigarette without lighter. A cigarette from his lips moved and placed in the hollow where I had found it, has no solution. The city leads you to do ... to do everything. You can roll tobacco in newsprint. You can smoke the dried grass of the park pissed. You can say hello to a child and send him to fuck off. But a cigarette without lighter. No, not that. This, no.
Not now and not here. Your lungs are already open, his eyes already full. Beyond the windows, over the tiles, the
parables and destiny. But no lighter ... The city tonight is only a cemetery to walk out on the floor of the tomb envy your neighbor.

Outro
outside the canteen. With his back against the wall. Your name marked on the list, Ruben
and another Moroccan who exchange glances for a favor is not given. The hooded sweat. The
ass on black marble of the pavement. Will be four, six. It's morning and night, you know
air that is more gas, more gas than it is. And wait. Always just wait. What - do? We all have a hand that slips into the pocket, the day all we have. We touch a cigarette, ready made and finished, a stone's throw from us. The touch and feel it slipping away slowly, as the queue of people coming in like a robot to take the milk and shit. We hear it, brushing her hair, but can not afford. We can not smoke. If I, here today, all I could ignite with a flash and a puff, breath in the streets, the cars, the people, the smiles and electricity. Inhale all the dust and the rest. And when, with lips bellows
let the smoke over me ... I, believe me, I know that everything would go back to his place. But the cigarette is in your pocket. The cigarette is gone. Today for us is just another day, another day waiting to find a flint shameless, free. A glittering stone, which is due at the end there.

Gift For Someone Who Had A Stroke

Tomorrow does not change everything - Gennaro

I've been a wanderer for most of the end of my life, or I could say a homeless person, a stray dog, as he used to call me you.
When I had the good clothes and a job, money that barely allowed us to live, then I named Luis, how strange. Now I'm just a bitch, a sewer rat.
The names change, and change the titles, the way people look at you when you no longer have a roof, when you no longer have a name, as if I were an alien from Mars or Saturn. Instead I still have a heart. A beating heart, a heart that is cold and fear, a heart like that of all. Do not try to tell of suffering that no longer have a name for yourself and others, are now only a shadowy figure who walks in the night, sleeping on dirty stairs, full of piss, the land of my own shoes, butts cigarette cartons and soaked by the rain.
what you think, moreover, as I pictures, but now it is an exaggeration.
I'm not saying that it had experienced very difficult periods, it is not so for some years, there are people who help me, I is slowly restoring dignity even if it is already late, tomorrow does not change anything.
I could tell you a million times that I still have a heart inside here somewhere hidden between my breasts. A heart like any other, just a little bit sick and stuttering.
The real difference is not having a head on the ceiling, doors to open with these hands scratched and tired, no place to call home.
When we were evicted and you came to live with your mother, I was happy in the end, I knew what would happen next, and despite everything that was fine for me, our son could still continue to hope, as I can not help myself. Do not blame you at all. Now I do not drink as before, you know? Why I no longer think about all those nasty things for which we could not live well together, for example money, damn that money always went away before the end of the month. This heart and
traitor bastard who has no intention of beating properly.
cut short, Roberto. It 's been a long time, I know, but I would like to see my son and I ask you to bring him here, at least once, how many years will now, ten? I ask only this, bring it here from me once, just once, then yes I'll be happy and at peace, happy for ever, despite the words peaceful, peace, happiness does not have a lot more sense to me now. It 'an unreasonable desire, perhaps not even so much, but are months that I live only for unreasonableness, only to discover that they live in are those of all. Even in this I feel so different from the others. We desire that this is a bit like the last cigarette to smoke in front of a firing squad. You can not negarmelo.
You never answered my constant reminders of recent times. Because times have really last this time. Spending time to count the drops that fall from the drip, I do not want pity because I really have to laugh. I have to laugh really. To what a stupid and cruel life can be, wonderful, exciting, petty, but full unfortunate, sad, sweet or resentful at the bottom is the same.
The end is the same for everyone, as the beginning, are the nuances that change.
potertelo not find other ways to say, moreover, do not ask you to understand, as I might, I have never been up to this damn world that I was violent and cowardly, a drunk without restraint. Pathetic, as my words after so many years.
This damned misery, but do not seek justification poverty creates monsters.
Now I think it's time to feel better cold, so I'm writing, because in the end we always awakens sins. Now that there are few things that count. Do not you feel a little too cold? After all these years you tried to hide. I've refused to yourself and to others, getting them, but what is the thinking of others unless we have the most ugly? The shame I felt for me is always so strong? Who knows what you tell him about me. How do you justify my absence.
Let me try to understand the shame, the one that you try. That in the eyes of all the people I saw go to Corso Trieste. The usual people who was passing by, for work, go home or somewhere else, I learned to recognize the legs and walking. Paradoxically tried to look in the eyes as little as possible, because I felt sorry for them after all. Their compassion, their indifference and their discomfort. Who changed or sidewalk he looked up. Shake the weight then you do not know what the consciousness with fifty cents. All seemed the same, the generous and intolerant to me did not make any difference. I hated the compassionate and charitable in the same way I do not know how I got to this point. I was just sure that once my body left behind in their worlds, and changed nothing in their souls. Their hearts remained undisturbed for a very simple fact, they did not understand. The discomfort can not be understood by those who have not lived, perhaps tolerated, it will. But I and others like I think we only strange creatures that you encounter along the route.
I do not want more money, why not accept your charity. Now I do not know what to do, I'd rather that people and institutions to change perspective, which began some time watching the world from our point of view, and not always to put their vision of things as a stamp on a letter, so- is why so goes the world-, one should first understand that the world is not going anywhere, it is always static, beautiful, grotesque, sad. Inclination would have to change just for one day, trying to really understand.
If you are just average, then inserted into the company and pretend that all you want listen, with the presumption that their stories and personal misadventures have a value on the scale of what matters. But if you live down the street this is not the case, then the question changes, the stories of each of us are no longer stories, but mad ravings of a lunatic, no ears cocked, no credit, no respect. Compassion maybe, but we are all able to say, Poor soul! -
be removed because you fear, because you smell, causing sickness or even worse, because they believe you are a criminal. Many facilities or public organizations, are often just another court where being judged, not to mention those who derive profit over our heads. Before I
addormentami is easy to remember all, but all confused. Faces, bodies, words, hands, glances, movements, words and lips and even screams, footsteps, walk up steps, my eyes on my feet, walking without stopping and curbs, the dog sniff you, who takes you away something while you're sleeping on the street.
I see them all: the girl in miniskirt and high heels with her purse and paid three hundred euro not worth a quarter, which is manufactured by Chinese in the garage of shit. The student with the dreadlocks and Che Guevara T-shirt Adidas shoes, the woman with the shopping bags and the disaster in the eyes,
the hippies, the ones with the ridges, the man in tie and briefcase to drift to nowhere, those with the cracks, the father who departs the child, the mother that blasphemy against her children, the elderly who go to church and die alone, the Indian who sells fruit, the Pakistanis at the pump, and shops in an eastern euro, fake Punkabbestia with two dogs at the ATM, the 'anorexic and loosening, maniacs and frustrated. I can recognize and tell them all at first glance.
Then I see myself from outside, in this hospital room, in my turn bad and intolerant to those faces desperate and hypocritical, desperate and lonely just like me, not so different.
become enormous distances, we begin to live on different planets, galaxies, unreachable, walking, walking without ever improving, such as salmon swimming in a river with no mouth.
All words I heard that they rape my ears, also come to visit me before bed every night longing for a rest precarious. All these words and phrases that start to spin confused in my head: "They are parasites drunkards", "Do not do no evil", "I have no problem leaving him a €" "They stink and shit where they sleep," "I'm sick "" Be careful where you go son, "" Go to work! "," ruin the neighborhood, "" But the town can not find him housing out of town? "," Decoration "," What do I pay the taxes? "," Order, "" should burn! "," Security, "" They did well to send them away, I have two young children. " Then I
fall asleep when the concert ends, for a few hours with no dreams.
You should also see how I look incredulous when the nurses surprise me to write a letter, as if to say, "Wow, this one also knows how to write," and believing that crazy laugh. Not to mention their surprise to learn that I have finished school and I had started college. I ask you to think about what I wrote. Today
passed the doctor, is a good man, always tells me not to worry, but I know myself that the situation is serious, I do not need nor ask questions to get answers and I think he has understood. He traveled a lot, you know? The last time was in Egypt, my dream as a child. I ask him always stories of his travels, for me that I have never traveled is wonderful to hear his stories. He always stops as good ten minutes to speak to me of the places we visited.
I ventured to say that ultimately does not matter neither the beginning nor the end of a trip, nor the destination or disposition, I do not know why I said, I came naturally to philosophize about this argument, perhaps the road can also teach you something, as we see in the movies, maybe not. After all the time I spent alone the only thing that remained was the thought, above all, try not to poison him, not mad.
Well I told him that the important thing is to go head-to nothing, for all that we've never seen, never tested on our small, annoying reflections and points of view, to what we have never known. I think this is the point. For a real trip there is no need to go that far. She smiled at me with a consent, then closed the door behind him.

How Long Does It Take To Go Anorexic

Lapadula's race Isolina - Melanie Ceccarelli

was just a skeleton in a field on the edge of the highway.
was just a skeleton, and this frightened her.
Experts of the policemen were immediately aware that she was a woman, young. Major James Morabito had arrived following a call from a farmer who had decided that day to go to work a bit ' of land not his own, a strip along the highway exit that was there, no one cares.
Major leaned on those bones, and despite the habit of corpses, had a quick motion of disgust. He was an expert in examining dead people for a while 'and recently had more practice because there was around some fool who had started to kill young girls and prostitutes. The murders of that kind were not common, but in Pisa, from 'the beginning of the year, was the third girl found in a field. Dropped on his knees for a closer look at the corpse. It must have been small, it was almost tenderness, a lock of red hair still stuck to the head.

"Isolina run, the cock!" Fast: you take the chaff. "Isolina jump!" In a hurry, take the blue bag, the one with your stuff in and jumps, and then run, fast, between the rails, sleepers, jumping, sliding under the belly of the goods, not to get caught by Polfer .
Isolina bad runs, he's young, yes, but lame. Almost always take it. There's Abdul in front of her, he runs that fast. I do not ever get caught. He turns, takes the bag and makes an appointment in the usual place that evening. But you should try not to get caught.
Today there is this woman in office. E 'di Napoli, like her. Her hair is long, wavy red, like her, tied tight under the cap by police. He sees her from afar and runs after him, faster and faster. Damn, but that it means business' is pulotta? Go to the gym eh, ugly bitch, you keep in shape. Now only two of them, behind a very long goods, Isolina feel they have more, turns. The Neapolitan police officer looks at her and hand her a nod, as if to say: canvas, come on, shithead run and then slows down a bit, 'little, just enough for Isolina able to jump across the fence and disappear from the gray his sight.

Pitch dark in the car, they are ten, she 's the only woman. E 'on the first night sleeping the station. E 'run by the Community that morning. It will be the tenth time you beat it, not because there is evil in the community just because there is too narrow.
He tried, seriously. It has been detoxified, at least four or five times, can not remember. That is not the difficult thing. It is difficult later, when his Italian - Neapolitan full of errors, its uneven legs, shame to talk to anyone, should "re". Reintegrate into the community jargon means all things difficult: finding a job and then a house, those are the two fundamentals. And certainly, it seems easy in words, reintegrate, but it is very difficult for someone like her, is not never been inserted.
Nine men and a girl of twenty-three years to stay inside that car, as far away from the station. Isolina had not thought that could happen to such a thing. Who knows, maybe naively thought in his head in his hard head. The first night the rape of two, maybe others are too old or too drunk, I do not know why not see them.
When the sun filtering through cracks in the door of the car is thrown to the ground and slowly comes to the bathroom of the station, enters and lava, looking in the mirror. That image you see, vaguely pink and red, which should be her, is slowly gives way to nothing, air, cold air to the transparency of the morning 's winter. Isolina no more.

That evening back at the station, to the wagon. E 'in November, it is cold, not frozen wants to die, and then not know where else to go. Log in and are twelve, eleven men and her. There is also Abdul, a young Moroccan, a young HIV-positive, with whom he shared a few pear in the past. He smiled at her, she returns and lies down beside him. She kisses him. The wet with tears and said, do you? For you, for you? He does not believe his luck and that first night is a fight for her. Since then no one bothers anymore.

It 's the first time in years that you wear a skirt. Almost to the foot long, black with red sneakers. At the party trade fair in the Plaza of the provisions and went with the voluntary Caritas, who had met in the community. That girl is not bad, just sometimes do not understand what it says: Speaking too difficult. And he wants to make nice. Between the two Isolina does not know which is worse but also adapts to go out with the Caritas volunteers because it is so wrong in any place with normal people, with children playing, street stalls, a stage for music.
sitting at a long wooden table, eating cous cous Fairtrade nobody watches, nobody pays any attention to her. It 's just like the other one, a young girl who eats with a friend, and chat with her.
not Isolina the lame, the Isolina toxic Isolina the Neapolitan Isolina the red.
E 'her, only her.

"Hello islands, where you going?"
"At school, now questioning."
"Ah, yes ... you still go to school."
"Yes, because there is something wrong?"
" No, no. You thirteen years, ever gallows? I do not. "
" No France, ever. I missed something? What are you doing when you fork? "
" There e are on the beach. Behind the boat and have fun. "
" How? "
" How, how ... if you come, you see. But what? Wilt really continue to go to school? "
" No no, I'll come behind boats. I saw that you did not fork but I have never asked me. "
" Yeah, right. Who knows why, maybe because you're a bit 'strange'
"Strange? I? And why? "
" Boh! I do not know, maybe the way you walk, maybe the hair. "
" What does it matter as the path? Walk Do not worry. Let's go. "

" Little Mom, come, I take you in my arms, go down the stairs. "
" Mom I know down the stairs by herself. "
" I'll help, you may stumble. "
"Mom, please, even if they are lame I know down the stairs alone and not the helmet."
"God damn me, I've done so."
"Mom does not matter, do not cry."

Blue Blister On Throat

ice and sand - Leo Todaro

Look here you can not stand! - Shouted the boy in the silence of fastfood. Chicco
was afraid. She turned slowly, looked at him sideways. He must be new. The voice betrayed his uncertainty. Chicco thought it must have been twenty years, roughly the age of his son Franz. Franz.Chissà grew, so far as if it was still blond and skinny.
A couple of times a week was a night raid Chicco fastfood in the Republic Square. At that time it experienced employees were at home watching the telly and who replaced them was often inclined to turn a blind eye.
- Are you hungry? Get this, just that you go - the boy said. She handed him a box containing a hamburger just mutilated. Chicco
took the box and placed it on the nearest table. As if nothing had resumed tinkering with the trays left on tables, emptied them and then stack them on the truck. If they had given him the uniform, it would almost be said to work there.
- Do you understand Italian? You've got to go - urged the boy.
- First let me finish work.
- Working? - startled the boy.
- I give you a hand, I think you need it. - In fact, Bean did not like begging, he liked the bread earned by helping out a bit 'here and a little' there.
- No good, you leave immediately, otherwise call the Police. Chicco
shook his head, like someone who does not understand, then turned slowly and turned away.
The boy took the box with the burger mutilated.
- Hold on, hold. Chicco
looked puzzled, then took the box. Pushing the stroller bags full of crooked and walked toward the exit.
He stopped two feet from the doorway, looked around as if he had never set foot there. Identified a basket, a huge pot-bellied frog, and put in the box with the burger.

*
Colin Irish was the most similar to a friend he had. His Italian and spoke little left to be desired, but it was necessary to understand. He had met one night in April, under a bridge the Tiber. Long and orange as a carrot, had alluded to approach, to sit down. Had offered him a cigarette. He was a generous. Had told him of a deposit on Casilina, where he cleaned the trains late at night. The cleaner usually rose at one end and went down an hour later by the opposite one. It was crouching in the middle and wait for the right moment jump into it. Chicco we had gone with Colin a couple of times, we had come alone and we had stayed in the cooler months, luckily it was the spring session and had taken possession of his favorite bench in Piazza Trilussa. But tonight it was not. For a couple of days the temperature had dropped sharply and Chicco had decided to have those eight or nine miles on foot, slowly, in the hope of being able to do a few hours of sleep a Christian. He remembered that he had to pass by Sor Guerino, the shoemaker of the Via Portuense who had promised him a coat. He walked with difficulty, he wanted to remove his shoes to relieve her poor feet, swollen like scamorze. Moved slowly between two rows of cypress trees, lining up wall of the war cemetery. He smiled at the thought that those imposing walls serve more to protect the dead from the living than vice versa. He saw an empty bench, framed between two trees, a lawn to make carpet. He decided to take a break. He dropped the iron on the bench. He slipped off a shoe, then the other, the deposed under him so you can tighten with heels. They were beautiful, athletic, infinitely more comfortable than it had before, skin, had taken too narrow in spite of the laces.
Suddenly he was met by trotting a spot mottled with four legs, a female fox terrier.
wagging his tail and whined for smelling good.
His mistress, a young woman, was behind 7-8 meters away.
- Lady! - Come here, she said hurrying up. Chicco
rejoiced at the unexpected visit, held out his hand without fear, stroked the animal.
- Carucci her - he said, rising - I expect something for you.
- Lady, let it be the lord! - She almost screamed. He took the animal by the collar and dragged him away frightened, so fast that Chicco
did not have time to protest. He gave up finding the rattle he knew to have somewhere, he sat back, sighed. It sank in the pocket of his right hand, fingers clasped the neck of a bottle, shake it by weighing the amount of content. He looked around, pulled the bottle from his pocket, took it to his mouth and gulped down three good gulps of precious liquid. Relief. He took a deep breath. His stomach was burning, but the recurrent feelings of being adrift on an iceberg evaporated. Now there was sand under his feet, the sand of a remote island, on which he had been shipwrecked. Following the train of thought back thought the woman with the dog first, then the bastard who called Camillo, and for a period had come to wake the morning in summer, when he slept outdoors on a bench in Piazza Trilussa again Whisky in the half-breed who had adopted in that other life, when he still had a name, a roof, a woman and a lot of other things to lose.


** The cleaner was in a bad mood that night, he had begun a half hour late, the fault of the child, twenty,-nothing that had not returned on time with the machine. He had got a scolding from the top, which would have an hour deducted from pay and cleared the already low regard that he had none. He wound up with a grunt comments from a colleague on the transfer market's fall and Lazio had set to work, shaking his stick metal shots with his fists clenched. When he finished, he sat down instead of going down to light another cigarette. Was Then he saw a figure moving in the shadows, five or six cars away. He threw his cigarette, stood up abruptly. Grab your broom made of metal, went threatening encounter the intruder. You broke
er cock! - Shouted dappresso now. Chicco
jumped, turned toward the door still open, he tried to escape. The other
azionò a device to the wall. Like a spell the door closed. He was trapped.
... Barboni - something hard whipped her head Chicco - doped ... - a second shot, rush to the stomach - people who do shit ... - third, terrible between the head and neck made him fall on his knees - From morning to night!
A stream of blood poured from his left temple, then his cheek gleamed across the chest, creeping between waterproof shirt.
enough - he wanted to groan. A kick in the chest, hard as a rock, took his breath, made him collapsing on its side.
raised his head, the other hoped that the fury had subsided. Macchi. Eyed, struggling as restrained by an invisible force.
Blood dripped from the temple of Chicco now on the floor, forming a small puddle.
Animal, you saw what you did? I ended up mo 'to clean! - Cried the executioner. Unable to utter a word, to beg for mercy, Chicco raised his hand before his face. A first kick at the center of the trunk. With eyes closed waiting for the next. That never came. A tall, massive figure materialized behind the man, he touched his shoulder, he struck twice in the head with a bottle. The first shot produced a dull thud, gloomy. The man staggered backwards. The second shot he saw the bottle explode in a myriad of splinters. Chicco was safe. Colin was panting, the weapon still in hand. He looked at his opponent fell to the ground. He had a grim expression that Bean had never seen.
- I'll kill this piece of shit! - He shouted.
No! Necessary that we go - Chicco said putting in half. Leveraging with nails tried to make him open his hand tightened on the neck of the bottle. Colin dropped. He put his hand under his arm of the Chicco, helped him get off, I sat down, then went back to taking things for both. The officer was lying face down in the blood that was now also his. Colin took up the piece of the bottle, he wiped the blood on the man's suit, then put it in a bag. From another bag he took a piece of cloth with which he dabbed the wound to the head of the Chicco.
staggering, bloody unlikely as gladiators, fell away in the night. Chicco felt infinitely tired. Colin looked at and thought that if it were not for him, perhaps he would find death quell'energumeno hand. I feel no gratitude. He felt rather cheated. He wanted to explain this to his friend. We gave up.
- Thanks! - Said instead.
Colin smiled, with strong fingers squeezed his shoulder.

Words For Congratulating New Birth

In the dirty laundry of Mary - Flavia Montanaro

I believe that a house is not only a safe haven from the cold and rain. A house is a locked door and an intercom.
I am 15 years old, my name is Maria. I'm in Italy since I was 7. After the death of my mother, my father decided to come to Italy. I've always hated her for this decision. He was a musician, played the saxophone. He dreamed of his own career for me. His brother told him that Brindisi would go to work as a bricklayer. He made good money and would have allowed a decent life for their children. My father decided to take our things, to take me and leave with him.
arrival in Italy I only remember the slight morning light that revealed the distant mainland. It 'was one of the longest journeys of my life. The only.
arrived in Italy to Brindisi, did not even know where to go. A new country, a new language.
"When we go into the new house, Dad?" I asked. "Soon my little one," he said with a look bleak.
I started to cry because I had to pee and there was a bathroom. My father pulled me slapped so hard that I stopped crying shame. I was not the only girl who was crying. But maybe I was the only one who understood that there was a house, let alone a bathroom.
I was so angry. I walked silently followed my father and my uncle. In Albania, at least we had a house there. I remember the brown tiles of the bathroom that my mother was determined to polish every day. A disease if it is taken away in a short time. Her apart from the memory of tile, I take with me a felted wool shawl worked in crochet. The only thing really that I have managed to bring.
I wanted to bring with me the wooden chair that my grandfather had built. And I wanted to bring Fishing also, my doll. But the owners of the boat told us that we could only bring one suitcase with us. We took the saxophone. And we dressed in layers. A light coat, a heavy.
Brindisi I did not like the city.
My father and my uncle went to talk to that job as a mason. I waited for them in a huge square. I heard the whistle of trains. I went and saw that it was a station. It would have been my home for some time. My father returned after a while 'smile, not his uncle. But that smile I knew him very well. It was the same as when he came home after a job interview did not go well.
We had little money with us. He decided that we would have used to buy food. I just wanted to a bed to sleep.
The station did not have all the comforts of home. For example, we went to the bathroom just to wash in the morning, they passed the cleaners to disinfect everything. During the day my father took out his saxophone. His fingers and his breath was our daily bread.
the evening we slept in the waiting room of the station. It was September. But it was already so cold. I clutched my mother's shawl. I closed my eyes and I wanted to wake up on my wooden chair.
After a week my uncle decided to return to Albania. My father always said he was "allergic to work." And it was true. We decided to stay in Italy. But to walk away from Brindisi. I did not like that city. People looked at me wrong when I took off the straw hat with purple flowers to recover a few cents.
We went to a pawnbroker and my father sold the watch to get two tickets to Rome. That clock was worth the memory of his grandfather. Much more than the price of two tickets.
That trip to Rome can not remember. The seats of the train were much more comfortable than those in the waiting room. I woke up on arrival.
Rome I loved her from the first moment I saw it. The station was also greater than that of Brindisi. So large that it could hold all those like us. In Brindisi, it was not. In fact one night the police sent him away a few men of color. They said we were too many.
smells, noises, many faces, the escalators. I was little. Too. I loved everything I saw. Sometimes even I have not weighed a house. And then we looked at Rome as bad when my father played and I took off his straw hat. The Termini station in Rome would have been my home for about 3 years. I knew a nun. Sister Claudia.
I always wore clothes. Some had holes in them, too big. But at least they were clean. Once he invited us to Christmas lunch. My father and I took all the leftovers. But one dark night he stole our bag and took it all away. Brown was a woman in her fifties, told me when he was still married to a man older than her. Went dancing. They made trips to the lake Sunday. Only that he died of a heart attack and the children were able to put her away from home and get your hands on a savings account with his money. He told me of all the places where he had lived. Campaign. Bridges. Of abandoned houses.
On my birthday he gave me a key. The key to my house. A bit 'funny as a gift. My house was his. The concrete bench in front of the escalators.
One hot summer morning my father woke up again. He too had left me. I was 10. I learned to get along by herself in no time. Sometimes Sister Claudia invited me to his parish. But I'm all eyes are painful and disgusted with the girls in their velvet coat them bear. Ran away. Then I squeezed in one shawl. And I cried.
My father taught me one day to play the saxophone. The secret was his heart. One day he managed to earn more than him. He was so happy. We celebrated with a pizza that night. The remnants of fast food left them in Fiji and Bigi.
Fiji Bigi and maybe they were brothers. One was deaf, one was silent. A strange pair those two. They lived only remains found in the trash. Waiting time of closure of the fast food and began a treasure hunt. Their work.
to play the saxophone but we had a real job. I often
the cottages and the countryside where he had lived Bruna. Rome the eternal city. Rome city that embraces you. But a girl of 11 years already woman no longer enough to hug the breast made of concrete and bricks.
took a regional train in the hope that there is not any controller, I chose a window seat. It was April. I do not remember where it fell. I could not read in Italian. Just talk. Really even now I struggle to read.
began to run. I do not know why. But I started to run towards some pine trees. I was a bit 'laid on the bare ground. It started to rain. And I went back to the station. The waiting room was small and cozy. I began to think of the chair. A Fisheries. Under the shiny brown tiles. I took the photo of my mother in her hands and fell asleep.
Today I am 15 years old. My mother is called Rome. My house is the square of the Tiburtina station. Many come here and too many coaches. I see so many people. I guess their lives, their homes. The keeper of the bath is my friend. Every morning I offer breakfast. It is often the only meal of the day. Spending hours playing the saxophone. To wait a few cents to materialize a piece of hot pizza. Every time I go to see Sister Claudia. The last time I went took my shawl. And he washed. It smells of lavender. I
shawl. I have the saxophone. I still have the key that gave me Bruna. But I have a house.
All in all I'm lucky. Struggle to live. But I'm alive. And I'm free. Not like Miranda. You must deliver every penny she earns to Kasimiro. His protector. He told me that makes them do horrible things. But she is happy because he has a bed and a hot meal insured. I do not sell out so my life. Never!
I decided that I will learn to read.
But now I take my shawl. System that old latex mattress that I found near the dumpster and the shield of an old scooter. There are some clouds and you can smell the rain.
Before closing his eyes always smile. Should I cry. And yet I smile. I smile at my mother and father. One day I'll have a house with the gate and intercom.

Rainbowsuperproemulator

Black Gold - Floriana Lenti Toto Cutugno

I was little when I saw him for the first time. His skin was dark, not black, a color latte that at certain points c'aveva more coffee and less milk and other more milk than coffee, but not just milk. He was thin, dry, like a taut violin string, even a little fat, and gave the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving a great strength. It was not very high and did not age, the only sign of the passage of the years that had black hair and beard that give way to gray, it becomes increasingly clear. A satisfied grin seemed to smash his face horizontally in two. His wrinkles, oil on canvas work certainly seemed a clever touches of Renaissance artist, unnatural as perfect, and they also had the ability to incorporate all Face the elements in harmony: the eyes with a bas-relief effect and floured acrylic darker below; nose importantly, more polished the rest of the face, lips pulled up the sides, stuff to decorate their cheeks, but If only we tried to hatch a few teeth emanated giallissimi where the language is fun and often bumped into a pass in the middle.
greet everyone. I remember well that was around as a stage actor for that little town in southern Italy, his stage was immense. During the day, via San Francesco, in the afternoon between the Church of the Sacred Heart and football pitches, in the evening in the square, in the vicinity of the central bar. It was there that I met him once at dusk eating sandwiches empty, "the cuts we can serve for the fillings of the day after" they said, but he muttered so careless, he only had the flavor of the sausage.
told that he had arrived by sea, a winter morning, at dawn when the fishermen were already preparing the fish market. Is said to have walked hours and is stopped in the first village that you probably did not like, it is forwarded to Statte. Since then move again. The smell of dry red earth gave him strength and reassured by the thought that the rubbish bins were not stinking of uneaten food and always overflowing. Nobody knew what his real name, and in fact what did it matter? He was Oil! He felt people often call in the local dialect: "Ptroghj" (in some places it is the duty of the scream south and vowels are optional, in fact "or" is not decided and sincere, and "j" is only one way Finally the word so soft). His eyes knew
communicate his moods. When he laughed he did it with taste, with the whole body, leaning forward in the various jerks, which spread to both partners.
He knew many things, countless stories, and had not read the books, and had overheard some of them lived. And if someone was willing to listen, delighted in repeating them, but never the same, every time we added unpublished details.
often helped people in difficulty, he carried heavy bags to older women, was methodically raise children who were crashing the bike because of the potholes on the asphalt, keeping an eye on parked cars in the second row in front of the delicatessen and whether there is a policeman started to whistle.
do not know if he had a wife or children or family or real friends, did not seem to care, he was fine with everyone, but perhaps did not want anyone near.
He liked the red wine, the farmers knew and occasionally give him bottles that poured from time to time in a bottle that he always carried with him. It was probably one of the few objects that he brought with him from his land.
He knew the constellations, each night before going to sleep and watched them seemed to count them, monitor them. He knew perfectly well that time there would be the next day and felt a gust of wind when he licked his finger to the sky and lifting it would say: "It must tramntna, tomorrow the sea is Na sfurtuna" or "vent and the person is punent whistling and singing. " Oil was better than forecast, as far as I know, has never wrong predictions.
As his cardboard and his blankets were considered "ugly" to be politically correct of all, compassionate men decided to give him a car, a black panda species without the right seat, so was put there on the tools and could even sleep in it. Initially did not want to accept it, then slowly got used to the idea and recently also became attached to quell'abitacolo worthy of the name "cas mj.
His greatest passion was rummaging in the garbage "C are so much bone in here," he insisted on repeating "the cristian Gettan all grow old bast ca sol s aggiustan" ridava and life to objects of all kinds. Resurrected irons, chairs, tables, cabinets, refrigerators, televisions, radios and so on and so forth. Sometimes he could sell them, sometimes bartered these items with apple pies and tarts, pasta and Parmesan. Is said to have also found a baby, a dark lint that saved his life by giving it milk with an eyedropper and covering it with clothes cleaner who then took him to church and it was he choose the name was undecided between Unlimited and Happy in the end it was decided to call it Joy, was a girl.
There were days when oil did not show up, he did not want others suspected that he was wrong and was hiding among some trees, near a ruined building that overlooked the railway. He loved the trains, the company did and helped him to dream of faraway places and suitcases full of clothes smelling of lavender, imagine being a manager and travel all dressed up, yes, if you really had to also wanted to be elegant jacket with the twins.
One day I came home late from school and decided to get off a few stops earlier than the one where the bus scarrozza me every day and I started to walk with his head down. I had lost a bracelet and I felt stupid sad. From a distance I saw him waving his bony fingers, and then I went over to greet me. "Hello Oil!" I whispered sadly. "That holds sir? Yes it is ugly cuss bell if I cry, You got nfastidit? T poss comforted? "He said following me for a piece of road. I explained that I had lost the bracelet and assured me that if he found one, I would have given him. Then we sat on a bench cold in the main street of the village and started talking. He told me of his shipwreck and wonder he felt when he realized he was still alive, also told me that his country was estimated and an engineer but he would not return back. All of a sudden I asked, "Petra, but tell me something? What is your name really? "," Ah, ah, ah ... "he smiled at his lips apart," Sir, yes, very curious, m Ptroghj call, yes, Pe-against-lio, and Vu Sapé pcchè? "Surprised by his answer he nodded "Oh, you must pcchè Sapé that the man closed Ricc du monde, I keep everything I ch. I could not believe: my eyes watched a man dressed badly, had nothing for me, incalzai "I called you because you have oil skin darker than ours." Putting his hand on his chest he said "You know, Where is' those that take? Lord, I've got the gold in here, then the rest of the rubbish I have CCOSI, there I Trovat u pe-against-lio. At that point he really seemed like a king. Smiled again and shook hands, I had to rush home to get my: Bracelet I did not care anymore, I just wanted to hug my mother and father, they were my treasure. It was the last time I saw him.
After a bit 'of time I learned that they had found Oil in black panda with the seat lying on the knees and the canteen with his usual smile painted in his face in his hands clutching a small bracelet.

on his tomb reads: "The citizens of Statte have lost their oil."

Dragon Age Origins How To Backup

Sing s'il vous plaît - Francesco Manfredi

sweatpants and athletic. Tony has no home. She lives two years on the beach in Budva, Montenegro. In gym clothes even in winter. Tony is a tough guy.
The sea is beautiful in Budva, as on all the Tyrrhenian coast of 'ex-Yugoslavia, nothing to do with the coast of Rimini, even though the water is the same, in theory. I am there, on a bench close to the beach I play the guitar. When he sees me does not seem real. Tony loves music.
"Sing Toto Cutugno, s'il vous plaît, I am half Italian! Lived in Brussels, but my Italian mother mon ami! From s'il vous plaît, what it does:

Let me sing with guitar in hand
am an Italian ...
"I'm sorry, I would settle, but I do not remember neither words nor agreements. It's OK if part of
Estate Bruno Martino? "
" Tres bien, thank you, mon ami! "After the song
applauded happily. Then he goes to buy a 2-liter bottle of beer and I
also brings a plastic cup. He drinks a bottle and between songs
tells me his problems.
"Ici is shit ... ici les fammes all whores ... There is no work .. Russian mafia bought everything ..
sing Toto Cutugno s'il vous plaît! "
I try singing the few words I remember.
Buongiorno Italy's spaghetti
A partisan as President ...
Meanwhile, I look at his eyes that change color to tears. I think maybe I'm turning blue
by dint of looking at the sea.
We decided to go to Kotor, Italian city twice, first under the Venetians and later under
Mussolini, it is also called Kotor. Tony
smell of alcohol, and more. The first bus does not make us go. The driver, looking at the
bottle of beer, told him in Serbian something like "is full, take next." We can only
hide the bottle of beer discount and hope to impuzzolire the next half.
Here it comes, it stops, we greet the driver, climb ... smooth.
I pay for him and for the happiness of having found a bus
tolerant of the homeless I come to mind almost all the words of the song.
Italy Hello, good morning Maria
with eyes full of melancholy Buongiorno

God know that there are too ...
Cutugno Great, I never thought of. We sing loudly while the other
passengers look at us amused.
Kotor is wonderful. It seems left in 1200, all stone walls and
reflected in the sea that surrounds it. On the main gate of the city a written undertaking that Titus
You do not break my balls for me and you'll see that I do not break my balls to you. Or at least this is the translation of
Tony.
Legend has it that at night the lights that illuminate the walls of Kotor are reflected in the water and form a heart. We are looking for this everywhere but no heart, we surrender to hunger and thirst and get in a supermarket. I take only a sandwich, a beer just Tony. Offers him, he wants.
"Merci beaucoup Tony"
"De rien mon ami, just after that I still sing Toto Cutugno, s'il vous plaît "
" Okay, later "
Tony takes with the story of his life-river.
has two children in Budva and a third who lives in Brussels where all the relatives, including a beautiful niece that I must know ... He remains here in Montenegro for his youngest children and the woman he loves, not the mother of his children, but another, a Slav that he just wants sex and he wants to marry ... everyone thinks that there is no future with someone like him, but it is not true at all because Tony is a hard worker, only that the Russian mafia has stopped investing because they no longer believe in Montenegro ... but Tony does not give up ever, Tony was in the military personal guard of Marshal Tito ... Tony is a close friend of Jean Claude Van Damme school because they were together in Brussels ... Tony has a huge house in Macedonia, but Macedonia Montenegro sucks worse than ... Tony was rich, time poor but has a big heart!
Time flies, Tony knows how to be talkative and interesting at the same time. And 'one in the morning and tomorrow morning I flew to Rome, we must leave to return to the wonders of Kotor to Budva. Assuming that I will pay, with the taxi driver is making me a discount, saying that an Italian artist are very good but still not claimed. I hope he's right. With the problem of olfactory
Taxi intends but in the end we talk and sing again, with the participation of the taxi driver. Everyone here knows Toto Cutugno.
Buongiorno Italy with your artists with too much
America on the posters ...
Up to my modest hotel in Budva.
front of the reception Tony asks me a bit of money for his four children. I had already said that I no longer have and I spent it all on buses and taxis and allotment tomorrow, but its script, it must respect it. I am a bit 'embarrassed. The guy at the front desk looked at me as if to say "it's always like this every day for towing a tourist draw some money today, it was you."
I tell Tony to go out for a moment together.
"Tony I'm sorry I really ran out of money!"
show him your wallet with only ten euro.
"Ok mon ami, only 5 € ..."
"Tomorrow I have to take a taxi to the airport, as I walk?"
resigned. The pledge my eternal gratitude and friendship. We say goodbye with a half hug. While I'm getting me back to the hotel. I think I want to send me to hell for having made him waste a day.
"You know why do not you first saw the heart in the water in Kotor mon ami?
"No, why? because I'm an asshole? "
" Nah mon ami "- he laughs -" Why do not you see the heart forever. He sees the heart only when God wants to make love with Terra, mon ami.
"Ah, I understand, God is sleeping tonight."
"No, mon ami, tonight God only wants to listen to our song."

Let me sing because I'm proud
am an Italian
a real Italian

Miosotis Smoking Cigarette

Whatever It Takes - Annalisa Maitilasso

Julio

The days seem the same and they are not: they are all different, but I prefer to remember as if they were one day. So I forget that today is January 17th, we're in the middle of winter and there is still much to spring, let alone summer. There
who hates routine, I love it. The routine is a piece of asphalt softer, more comfortable in a newspaper, a piece of guaranteed sunshine from 9:00 to 14:00, the baker, which opens at 6:50, an old lady who leaves home with the dog at 8 : 15 and 8:16 to curse because the dog has already peed against the box (or woman! With one foot in the grave and still smokes and fearless blasphemy), passing a boy at 8:45 with spots, it's always a new brand on the face: he smiles at me and mock me for fifty cents releases every other day. Certainly feels very good. I surely worth, here sitting on the ground to beg. I thank you and pretend to spit on the ground. Between 10:00 and 11:00 a lady always goes down after her skirt and drops a trail of scent that smells of female glazed and styling. He lives in the building on the right, in and out, full of boutique bags (maybe collect them). Increasingly agitated and pulsing. Do not ever leave me a dime to be one, but to me that I care if I peek from my desk legs and sometimes even the thighs and put his hand under the blanket, which is there on purpose.

I love the routine. The routine is home, my home is Madrid Calle Atocha n º 43, sidewalk, right, second door commercial next to a bar that is also a bakery: bread I get in quantity and there are no baguette give it to dogs of Tirso de Molina, to I only like the baguette. Every morning I pass it, I rarely get up before noon. If it rains and the asphalt is wet, I prefer to leave the rear springs to cheer me up. And if it's just a cold bastard like today, I declare day off and I'm going to try a hot corner: there are dozens of secret places, the dark hallways and semi-abandoned warehouse where nobody comes to bother you. When is one o'clock

isso me on my legs hairless boy-scout, tripping a bit 'till the blood does not circulate back to sleeping in the joints and start to take care of my spare time. I'm lucky, I work only part-time. The afternoon is spent around. I am coming down the Calle del Olivar, moderately satisfied and moderately pissed off like any good citizen of this city where people cry when he speaks and flapping your feet when walking. Parallel to the Calle del Olivar is a narrow strip that down to a colored square, done in steps: the square of Ministriles, a hole between two rows of buildings seems the space between the teeth of a toothless old man. Sometimes I sit down to rest and I'm going to watch the pigeons shit on the benches, while groups of blacks mingle with whites happy sad eyes dilated who smoke and deceive each other.

and down to the Plaza de Lavapies rifled passages from the people. Young and old are dragged back and forth, each driven by a different fever: couples seeking friends, friends looking for a beer, beers in search of the mouths of bar-goers who already mumbling at five in the afternoon, afternoons looking for a way where the sun and the blue of the sky are often not for everyone, a sufficient way, as they are for me. He slowed his pace surrounded by children clinging to the skirts of the assistants, boys cross color anxious that file away under the eyes of bored cops in the depressive phase. You hear laughing
Calle Argumosa; people if they're sitting there at the tables that, even in winter, dot the edge of the sidewalk. They open their mouths and close, smoking in the evening. While walking, jumping from one conversation to another, through the sound barrier, I hoarded scraps of sentences: "... I am exhausted, I do not know why I keep going to the office every morning ... maybe because they pay me ..."," ... when shares ? I'm really happy, so you take off a bit 'from ...","... All right, you're right ... but I'm not sure I'm wrong. "
slide away into banks nebulae speakers, infinity boys hugged, I winked at the legs of a tall boy in purple skirt that pretends not to see me ringing the ponytail.

finally came to the Ronda de Atocha and I find myself under the red wing of the Reina Sofia ready for the crosswalk Atocha station. Here I was, in the middle of the night commuters, with a firm step the metropolitan man, now in its terminal stage of development, ready to swear that there is no desire to smell of backyard or field that can tear the city and its infernal fro . I walk like the others, among dozens of others, through the Paseo del Prado with his eyes standing on the imaginary thread of my steps. No one would be the difference between me and them, I'm lost in the flow of through professionals who advance as marching soldiers. Maybe they are not dressed well and did not smell of bleach, but not them. The people of Madrid to sell their bad taste, smell of garlic and, usually, are proud. We see that reflected on that program ford tv, how to invent an excuse to dine out on what matters to scream at the top to use to their children. They already have thoughts at home, 20 minutes by subway from Atocha. Also I have already thought at home and my house is in a bathroom of the station or somewhere along Menendez Alvaro, or on a bench in the Paseo del Prado, or wherever you want, even if rarely change when I find a good place. I am a 40 years old, as all the old routine and hypocritical as all their forties who are convinced of their worship life, and decided to love Madrid, their cities, whatever the cost.

Emily-18 Inurl:2009/12

The steak - Maria Grazia Mattioli

Katie walks the half-deserted streets Florence of a pre-August. It has no clear destination. The head almost empty of ideas, just a word you float obsessive "Fame" but it's something every day, do not worry too much, soon will fade to give way to exhaustion, then a good night's sleep on a bench and waking up around the bins: it's amazing how much stuff you can find good, people will throw it all: just stale bread, snacks and milk cartons which expired a day, fruit a bit 'too mature ... Katia
begin realizing that the real problems in Florence for someone like her are pretty water and bathrooms. Almost all the fountains have been closed. There is only water that flows from some fountain in Via Nazionale; As for the bathrooms knew that was approved a rule, of course for traders: they can refuse to use the toilet to anyone who does not drinks.
You just returned yesterday in the city.
recalls his arrival at the station, the heart sank when he read "S. Maria Novella", his eyes wandering dreamily on the images of the station that had almost forgotten in this year's crazy but she could not wander over to try that 'broad, joyful breath, full of music and those who feel every time you come back to Florence for a few brief trip: it was now
all off, Matt.
had fallen from a train holding on strong. He felt the panic invade ... perhaps it would slip
under the train and she would not have stayed that bone fragments and bits of flesh, a mass without identity ... The sidewalk had received as an unexpected refuge.
Katie thinks, although it is difficult for some 'time now.
One day, over a year ago, rising from the bed had to be understood come to an end: many unnecessary fights, the job lost, the grown children and happy with their families, a marriage wrong, some love story ended and last, the more bitter, had given the final blow. And so
had disappeared leaving a note to a minor child with whom he had had more feeling.
had asked him to tell the sisters that would have gone for a while 'abroad, needed to be alone with herself because she had to find themselves lost in the mess of life and would not grieve her children and friends, he wanted to go it alone without the help of no. He wrote occasionally, but if they really wanted to know that does not seek it. This was the best gift that requested them.
So he had taken to wandering around Europe, Spain, Germany and finally Paris. He had lived by selling necklaces and bracelets made by himself, but also small drawings of cats, his favorite animals. Also sold flowers made of crepe paper of so many bright colors, but this was more difficult to find the raw material, a few stationery had that type of paper, but sometimes he found the flower: here did not pay anything, was an exchange with his drawings of cats.
Often during these months of wandering had felt the desire to disappear, dissolve
like a bad dream. Other times fantasized
on Intervention of a child fitted with a giant rubber huge: if he saw him fall grinning and delete forever from this world. Now the silence of the street who is going through is broken by a burst of laughter and happy voices: they come from the open window on the first floor of a building facade with pink crayon.
All together, the voices of children and great soul that air sleepy.
Faced with this house, in a piece of shade, there is a greengrocer shop with a large stone step. The gate is pulled down, a cheerful sign stands out on this hand-drawn with a palm tree on a strip of sand near a sea-blue "we are on holiday until September 1." This image like Katia. He sits on the staircase, closes his eyes and dreams of entering the drawing: it seems almost hear the waves lapping up on shore and salty spray as high as his face flushed.
Then suddenly the air was filled with a good fragrance. This is not part of the dream is real! He opens his eyes and sucks that aroma voluptuously delicious: it comes from the same window from which flow those shrill voice. You
smell of roasted meat.
steak on the grill, of course! " -She thought. "
All the senses soothed by the dull life that is leading are waking up.
"Yes, it was a steak that are cooking ... blessed them."
Suddenly the sun shines on the window sill a helmet of blond hair.
Katie looks delighted. They are precise
identical to those he had his first daughter when she was little (and then had a little 'dark), only those of his daughter were longer and slightly wavy.
Katia recalls. "How long ...!".

He often went with her to Piazza Signoria.
"Mom, let's go dall'omino peak?". At that
time was not forbidden to eat animals and there was just a chubby old man who was selling small bags of corn for the pigeons.
Now for a moment her daughter's face is superimposed on that of the baby, then back to the real appearance.
remembers. When he was in the square with her asking her to be able to withdraw once they had got
a series of watercolor sketches just beautiful but did not know where they were finished.
When he decided to leave home, children and all with a phone call to Emmaus everything was over in their big van.
But I regret nothing, he followed his desire to annihilate and was managed very well, at least until now, never thought of the past ... but what's going on ... This scent of roasted meat digging streams of light in his mind, images and memories that surfaced believed forever lost.
How odd .... in this long sad years sometimes before falling asleep on the four boxes that could raise had dreamed of waking up from this stupor existential feeling a
beautiful music and the scent of a flower ... but he never imagined that this was the case for a spiritual thing for nothing, like the smell of a steak.
possible that this was his salvation?
Suddenly she remembered a phrase of his father. One day they sat at table together,
many years ago, he said, turning to his sons, "Boys, when mom is dying Do not call the priest, rather than get off at the nearest restaurant and hand them a plate of spaghetti amatriciana. "
Yes that's right for her to eat was always important, since small.
smiles thinking about his mother and stuffed of tomato soup.
"The children grow beautiful if they eat the jelly behind the door." He said.
was the war and was the epitome of good feeding.
Katia rises suddenly.
opens his backpack worn by the color indefinite (once was blue.) Search among the junk here is the strange title of newspaper that had made yesterday in the square Dalmatia. "Out track." Katie thinks.
The newspaper had taken so much to do.
It was not his intention read, were a distant time where every day he bought the "Republic"! Long time no longer read, or books, or newspapers. Piazza had gone to Dalmatia because he wanted to review Gino and Angela, his good friends for a while, but then was seen in the mirror of the bathroom of the club Aare was so changed, lean, blue-rimmed eyes ... would not have even recognized, she was sure. So it was on track to take the bus No. 14 to return to center and right in the square, between the scale and intimate shop, a woman who had seen a newspaper distributed by the curious title "Off-track. He was approached and asked: "How much?".
"free offer".
"I I only have 30 cents, well? ".
" Take it well, I'll gift, if you want you can come see us in writing. On the first page there are times and address.
Now Katie knows that fate is just funny and unpredictable: the smell of a steak he had opened the way to return to live!
Read the Editor's address: Via del Leone . This name you like, is also the astrological sign of his mother and his brother, is a sign of good luck!
did not just have to dive into this new adventure. It is certain that everything will be fine.
Forturna adiuvat Audaces!

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Ponte Sisto - Luca Riccioni

n'giorno today is that I always feared

Arcuni In the moments I lived

mo But life says I n'fallito

St'urtimi time I look at me know loser

Licensed evicted abandoned

Na was Vorta eg on my healthy

Mo nun all alone I know helped

But eg on the same patient

know I've got no more no no I kept

Er dark now here is n'torno decreased

seems to him that if everything is stolen

Er dark now me me embraced

Why is close to never be left?

Here r'novo companion I found

He's disoriented r'senso stunned

D'Essem nd I'm always lived

I do not know nun of your fund changed

But everything changed ao er rest

mo dear And I'm beautiful exposed

A n'occhio de compassion or disgust

Why? Mo mo I'll explain bell'imbusto

I de n'vestito I'm lacking social

raccontamosele Yes yes I know honest

But now I nun quer dress the dress

From now on I will be seen

How r'barbone beneath bridge Sisto

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Among the rubble and cardboard - Stephania Giacobone

Clothing kiss from the moon

O for a thousand rays of light

beaded with raindrops

The forehead, wet noses

They went at sunset Looking for new bedding

They knew the size of Earth

Why were measured in steps

know the cold of the night and his line

knows no fear, courage, rage and horror

The honor and humiliation burning face

and knew the dawn, the bivouac, the aurora

The dream that is imprinted in the eye

The adrenaline of the morning

stomach begged

The cold cut the skin

A hug became

food and blankets

And everything that you were giving

These two free spirits

Man and dog

There are no bosses

Police poverty.

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Humidity - Sara Parzanese

Humidity is democratic

and non-seasonal

Yet when she decides to attend

Company or termination

Play forbidden

It leaves you sweating

Since you know in your bones penetrate

In winters disgruntled and bitter Monday

To me you walk if you want to walk

I have to sit up but I can think

If a little 'I envy you've chosen the

But the poetry of the past

What is your present for me it is imagined

Give yourself sweating, cold, thrown?

for you is free, proud, conquered?

The humidity is as demand evaporates

heavy and silent

Sometimes it threatens suit and bellicose.

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I feel the wind blow - Satya Marino

I hear the wind blow through my hair

,

footsteps far and near,

a nonexistent peace

and the smell of wet earth.

My body is wrapped

a blanket shivering,

my hands

collect raindrops and

I look

facing the void.

are lost among these people

around me,

that touches me, hits me, pushes me.

words, speeches, puffs

bounce on my face.

And I in the crowd,

with the crowd,

in the crowd, I quickly

disappearing.

confusing.

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History Giacomini - Antonella Riccardi

Four coins in his pocket,

four coins and four dreams

the bottom of the bottle ...

E

Jack flies over the rooftops of Rome,

flies and whispers words of love

curves to the shadows of the evening.

Sometimes

touches the ground and sits on the porch.

sits and counts: one, two, three, four ..

The minutes, hours, seasons fleeing

and hurried steps

who relished the warmth of the nest.

Four coins in his pocket,

four coins and four memory

in light of the lamppost ...

Jack goes to the streets naked,

goes and puts butts and fragments' universe

burnished in the bag.

squints into the oblivion of night, chasing trains

without stop.

Cartoons shriveled and binary

tracks and even dust.

And a trip under the stars.

Four coins in his pocket,

four coins and an ode on ...

Occasionally a crescent moon

dreams cradle on the bottom of the bottle,

asleep on the bench

Jack smiles ....