tired eyes are still half-closed for a little rest. aching legs. shoulder pain. this morning waking up is the worst and the alarm continues to sound cruel on the other side of the bed. floor walk between rooms still shrouded in the darkness of the morning. I turn around light bulbs that inflame their resistance, turn the microwave and heat water for tea, hoping to help me back to life. I take a bag from the cupboard infusions, thinking it is cold enough to convince me to get dressed with something heavier than my shirt. I always liked the colored socks, striped ones, of cotton, which seem to wrap their feet with a rainbow. remember the summer days spent lying on the green meadows of endless weaving in the fall are filled with mausoleums cylindrical hay dull yellow. seem to many small graves that farmers have decided to abandon to commemorate the nature that is gradually dying out in warm colors like the embers of a hearth. and the embers remember the food cooked in an aluminum casing, like the simple life of long ago lived in homes marked by grain of the wood and the smell of resin. and wood trees reminds sincere as the song of cicadas in the evening of August, killed by rough woodsmen with axes and saws the teeth erupted.
those colorful socks protect from winter cold and warm bare skin just looking at them, while off-white window rain continues to fall and their chimneys mixed with the dense smoke gray fog that hides all what surrounds you with its tentacles tell. I get out of bed in which I had Went down into and around the corner. huge cups rest upside down on a piece of fabric in the kitchen after breakfast. some have some chipping. a rather Sports sharp ceramic instead of the neck, showing its uniqueness in a world of cups made all the same.
book open on his desk a few listless says mathematical formulas of dubious taste, and in a hidden corner of the shadows of the study lamp, a pencil drawing that depicts a face d ' angelo, casual look into the void and swimming in thoughts so far away that if they spoke could be heard soon. Whether the blacks and grays are intertwined creating a web of graphite so thick that you can barely make out the signs. pencils intersect in abstract and rigid origami nearby, almost as an intruder, a blue pen without his cap.
tried something this morning, shook my pilgrimage home. I tried to understand the entire universe from the bottom of the shoe box where we were locked up. I tried a word for some concept that not even remember. I thought about a succession of sounds that fill your mouth to distract her from the silence of the place where I was. seek the meaning of things in the snowflake that blossoms from a drop of water came from the sea bottom. maybe just looking for a way, without too many frills or embellishments. put a beautiful frame to a work of art that does not devalue the artist's work, because everything must appear sincere and honest if he wants to maintain its integrity. I tried this, and nothing more.
is late. I take a book that knows of impressionism and hide it in your backpack while I go running while listening to a song I can not remember the title, and losing myself in his notes confused I am reminded of that this morning, falling back in reality, looking for a dream within a dream to rock the day that looked saucy from behind a mountain.
