not remember much about that day. just a lot of noise, his hands still over his ears while the body writhed screaming. I remember the tears come down and soak the shoes. I do not remember the color of your hair, your smell in the air condensed around.
shook his head from side to side. I repeated that everything was going the right way. I looked at the statues and buildings that populated the place alive and vociava chaotic. I tried to reassure me that the time required courage and the pain would take him off the living him, carrying on his shoulders.
remember inattention and misunderstanding, take their separate ways. I remember the train leaving while I sat on the marble bench in the station. a lighted cigarette and the sun shone all morning that the open space. the boy next to me was playing alone with a small red Ferrari, the paint peeling off. Zigzagged on the gray tile design porphyry trivial.
thought I had already lived for life made me jump and look ahead. I thought I had released everything from appearance that blurred. I thought I would see the color of the flowers in all its subtle nuances and subtle.
not remember the day I was never good with dates. must be winter because the cold enveloped everything. the green coat was not enough to retain the heat and chills took over. I order one of the drawers of memory and the euphoria of new adventure re-established balance between the thoughts.
the child was still absorbed in his imagination was strange onomatopoeic puffs with parted lips. I looked preoccupied trying to figure out what he was combining his childhood innocence.
suddenly slammed his hands on the ground, his face sullen. something must have gone wrong in his little world. the car was upside down. must be something important. we crossed eyes: eyes mirrored the violent and fiery as irises changed color. I held the cigarette between his fingers red and frost had gone. the smell of smoke rushing sull'olfatto with a subtle malice. the shadows we preparing for war tribal drawing pictures on our faces.
looking for the meaning of all because I wanted to understand everything. I read between the lines of the story because I found the plot boring in our lives. I argued with the craziest speakers to claim the thrill of contention.
not remember much that day, if not the chaos that swirled in my every word, every expression on my face, in all my certainty.
we looked into the evening, green in green reflection. we were so alike that we looked like strangers to each other. I remember the yellow porphyry; hunger attack the stomach with a tenacious grip, as if he had not eaten for months. I remember my baby cry, cry like I had never heard before. I remember the toy dropped as it never existed. looked shabby and tired. the wounds of years had abbruttito so much, that will hardly recognize the brilliance he had at birth.
"are you sad?" - I asked politely. the crying stopped instantly cryptic. hesitated to answer.
"no, I'm not" - he told me.
"why the tears then? Are alone?"
"no, not '
looked at me long. looked at me trying not to explode in anger against me.
"I cry because you're sad" - he set out at the end a silence broken only by the trains that were running on rails rusty.
"Want to play?" - It was dark.
was the last thing I remember. I never responded. I lit another cigarette. another, while I was waiting for something to happen. but there were only people who came and went, and trains that roared and flashed colorful graffiti done with spray cans. was a whole new world, though still the same.
the child was gone. I had not even greeted. I got up stretching the bones creaked under the weight of my body, sore muscles fatigue is reactivated.
I walked towards the city, with a slow pace. the lights on the windows made it seem so many fireflies small buildings, as if I were lying in a meadow in the summer. I stopped a moment, my breath froze on every breath, illuminated by the light of sodium lamps.
"why not?" - I have said before heading off again, while holding his hand in his pocket a small red car with the paint peeling off.
