One Night In Paris Stream

new sensations

Welcome to Stockholm. Everyone keeps repeating that phrase. I look at the happy smiles of the tourists and I understand they are no longer one of them.
"Well, you'll be where? I found a hotel that seems really nice "
"Actually, today I'm moving here for a couple of years, I follow an international course"
Frost, we were not even under the snow storm in the middle of December.
see that two hearts beat within them: the first is that you instinctively say "there's another forced to leave, that anger but also how much satisfaction" and the second one is true, that shields evil and keep the old emotions.
Stockholm has welcomed me in the way he remembered it, clean, honest, punctual, quiet, multi-ethnic. Looking back at life so far, blacks, yellows, mulattoes have always been the exception in my life. Here, in the district where I live, the majority population is the Middle East and I am that I represent diversity. Noto eyes on the subway, I feel the same detachment of some and the curiosity of others. Try to mess but you can not, do you care about the language and customs as well. The market square is there every morning with its cargo of merchandise, standing in line at the bank: everything seems normal, everyday life. But this world is not mine: they are at that stage of reluctance, in which the bad talk about your country turns into a boomerang of failures and regrets. I feel "temporary" (blessed as I understand), I repeat "2 years" and quick calculation in mind what is missing, until the day when things are reversed and I'll feel at home. Until then days and nights will pass at dusk and will always think of my sea and to you, my friends, and will not be able to hold back the tears because I feel defeated. Defeated for
believed to have made a difference, to have been better, he thought for a moment that defines the working man. They are all nonsense, dictated by the emotions that flow out of control.
In the morning there are more families, only silence and a house that maybe home is not: a dorm with all the comforts, where the sense of family is hanging hook left some rust. There is more everyday, there is the magic of being at the table and talk to someone, listening to television and you realize that talk about things you can not understand.
E 'that the discomfort of the first day.
But I smile, because it is passing.

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DDN

I had promised that something would change. From now on this beach in the north and moving-to try to acclimate to the best-will be called "Diary of the North".
I will try to tell you how to change my life and my mind, already suffering from too much input.
I hope to always be here, your trusty Matthew

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sand at night

down the window, feel the fresh air that just before dawn-and-squinting I do not think of anything else.
On the night of lights and stars, the beach is my only salvation.
It 's summer, the summer knows that my skin tanned from the summer go together, making nonsense along the crowded streets of people who know each other are mixed.
These days I seem to live "the last things": the last time before leaving the disco, sunrise view in the last row on the road still alive, the last breakfast after a night of binge-heartedness.
There are many details that make some unforgettable experiences with the summer I find myself looking for an example.
tanning gets rid of my dark circles, with jeans, shirt and loafers, ready to be taken in hand to feel your feet touch the sand, the night is the beach of desires and refreshment of the mind.
let me drag not caring patterns, ports, arrival and departure.

not mind being there but .

[Ravenna-Bologna-Milan-Malpensa-Stockholm-Arlanda]

look back on these days, the cicadas, the sun burning behind the slits of a roll, to the feel and thrills of sheet at the first light of day.
had done-that-I'll think I'll ever do it again.
I can always do it again?
And the days pass, and fell in love in the cold.
And the days pass, warming the heart and soul of a madman like me, who knows he has all but which never fails to appreciate the way down.
I help you?

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living room

There is a road in the middle of nowhere parallel between the metal and finally a train roars and scares of the cicadas in the summer. No one knows where it's rumored that someone born with, but end up "in the country that is dying."
Some houses remain unchanged with the passage of time in the valley bathed in fog, which rises in the morning to stifle with the sun and lies down again in the evening to make your life indistinguishable.
"Back to the sixties american" you might say to cross that door.
There is an old woman who forgets is forgotten and, speaking of things that may not be familiar, a doctrine that has made the first illuminated and then slave.
An unstable man, "shaking" as the spark that turns yellow, bent over volumes and volumes on the Spirit, sits back in the bedroom, the temple of faith and (non) reason.
The opaque colors, white black in a kind of moving, they are completely separate but equally fluid as immiscible between them. Everything is in place, clear, pure, free from all anxiety.
As the lives of these two people, one climbing on the other.
Their roots are not known, but aim high, too much to understand and share the joy of a lifetime.

Because who does not cultivate can not expect to collect .

It 's like a dark window in a dark room, empty but inhabited.
It 'just a photograph of eight smiling faces to give life to a house of terror?
What are smiles? Honest, dishonest? Of interest, pulled by fear? They claim

They know me,
They pretend They Know, But They Do not


This taste of the tears of rage? Pour in the name of what, because of whom?
What does it mean?

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Hymns and banners
The inventors of regional self-interest have thought a new
: Expose the banners to be attached to local banks
Diera tricolor (the one with which "we will clean your ass")
and abolish the de facto national anthem "
is a pain." (statements by a celodurista). Regio-ni
Many already have their banner, while others will have to create from scratch.
This, however, is an attempt to further divide our
Italy in the thousands of small states ruled at one time by
eminent heads of celeriac with a high rate of parasitism.
Their only privilege was to rob the
their subjects. Now the morons are flourished in
clusters: the ignorant who pretend to be statesmen,
shopkeepers who believe they are economists, criminals or sim-ple
indicted and convicted, who believe they have experi-
you justice ... However, these individuals are all great phrase-the
whose only talent is the selling of ad-
dormentateste bales. People who are against Italy and its insti-tutions
, but lives inside of them parasitize
money galore and even the good faith of its followers;
people outside of time, given that we live in an age of-
globalization, people whose children are so brilliant
from having to repeat the baccalaureate exams for three vol-
you and which is assigned a sector of their organizational
party.
I hate people who wear shirts of a single color.
and scorn those who menano proud of that color. The tut-
to have the old flavor of fascism movement that began its sad
process by wearing shirts of a single colorectal
King and resurrected the story of Imperial Rome to galvanize young people and Zare-
creduloni.Quelli d ' today, more festivals, no han-
organized a celebration in which they were teach-
rites a cart pulled by oxen, surrounded by characters but
-masked heroes, and a drink of water Po, followed by libations
much more invigorating . Then, intoxicated, not with love
Po alcohol but, praise be to Alberto Giussano
mythical hero with various Bossi has nothing in common.
pity that, after him, the various municipalities have been divided by Lombard
the usual questions of the workshop. Meanwhile the party has spent almost fascist
€ 30,000,000.00 to resurrect the history of
quell'Alberto producing a film which talks of
Lumbard of the time, not those of today: shopkeepers, racist and selfish
beyond measure. As I said in one of my pieces
, they invented the rounds, just like
time of the Duce: the who, at least, was not as ignorant as them.
These troublemakers of disputes, the makers of fake heroes, the
Italian government gives the money to keep up a day-
tion, a television and a thousand other activities "separatist"
such as, for example, World Cup of idiots
separatists, Miss Padania, performing pagan pseudo
Celtic, etc. .. And the old banking scam? Boooh!

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Is that how love looks like? -23

Happy b-day my sweetheart, For All The Things I Should Have tell you, for all the things left unsaid, for all the feelings never shown.
A pledge to your beauty, to your voice and smile.
Once I'll be far away, I'll keep on remember how you called me "Mylove" and everything will be alright. Even
sadness and regrets.
Because yes, I'll do have.

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E 'started in August, the month of holidays, the month of "switch off because then it starts again in September."
Behold, I in August off and start again.
List suitcases in preparation.
List packages to be shipped too.
ticket taken.
House found.
What's missing?