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.
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.
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.
0 comments:
Post a Comment