Capping Teeth Insurance

Appasud_quattro: Swings

Tuesday, late sunset.
I venture, trying something to make me stop.
The heat today has made me sleeping, I have the feeling of waking up recently.
I follow the line of the dense main course: distance between apnea in goods, people, bars, and then something changes, an invisible line is changing the landscape: a square, the breath, a little 'vacuum.
We are at the end of the course, in the melancholy pomp that fades on the edge of a door that describe the city. Passing under the arch comes, in that 'not only is a bit' as when the party ends and begins the moment of nostalgia for some, love for others.
Nestled perfectly in this space the dull sound of a small road with his piano player and a subtle caress of air that accompanies it.
stucchevolezza The scene teases me, I get sick, I stop. Notes
songs are already known, but crippled, they accompany a short distance couples tired, couples holding hands, couples tourist.
quick steps, look down, pairs of solitude ... make me want something else. So drawing on the street what is not there: a Charlie Chaplin with his cane walking slowly, with measured steps, flanked by his wife shy lace gloves with a little 'worn-out, funny love.
He stops in front of the player, he wipes the tear which has ruled indecent touched her face and then, without saying a word, looks up and points a finger at the sky, laughing with the mouth of the moon.
dogs growl and screams of the bosses, I sconcentro, down from the illusion, they are tempted to ignore the reports of disharmony, the non-compliance of the atmosphere, but at the same time I see her turning around, savior of my case "the romance does not is dead, long live the romance. " She sits beside him, silent in the face of music. There is a monument to see a side to be photographed. She takes the player with a camera and gently shaking his shoulders like a mane in the wind.
soothe me and I forget the dogs and their owners in particular.
I'll be back to let me take possession of the music, it is she who leads the eye, he thought the land, seduces the hand that writes.
beo me of how the imagination can illuminate reality.
may seem an illusion, or no awareness of reality, but I am convinced that it is not: it is instead a kind of drug that makes me stubbornly devoted to the glass as half full, a drug difficult to stop because her power is so strong that hallucinogen generate real, tangible.
How now, this music is not beautiful, very original, not at all experimental che fa dondolare le spalle, sorridere la ragazza in bicicletta, torcere il collo al passante, mi fa offrire una sigaretta al mio vicino di gradino, che poi me la rioffre e io a mia volta la ri-dono ad un altro, incornicia per i miei occhi un quadro dal titolo “arco con statua appesa a spicchio di luna”.
Canzoni diverse possibili.
E allora, prima che la festa finisca, nel dubbio tra l’orizzonte nostalgico e quello amoroso, ricordo e ancora una volta onoro una frase di Calvino, tormentone che da anni mi porto appresso, come quelle scatoline di legno finte maya piene di minuscoli pupazzetti finto andini.
“L'inferno dei viventi non qualcosa che sarà; se ce n'è uno e’ quello che è already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together.
There are two ways to escape suffering. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become a party to the point of no longer see it.
The second and 'risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the middle of hell, not' hell and do
last and give them space. "
Modern lady from a lace gloves bit 'worn out for a walk with his Charlie Chaplin in the streets of the Invisible City.


Books read since I
south ... "Strong wind between Macedonia and Candle, exercises paesologia" Franco Arminio (To end);
"Invisible Cities" by Italo Calvino.

Southpark Ipod Streaming

Appasud_tre: the swallows.

I see them since I came here three months now.
I know there are causing me, make me itchy hands, would be written, but so far I have portrayed.
Speaking of swallows seem a contradiction in the world. An act of wanton lightly in a heavy time. I need an inner determination to do so, a year of temporary liberation from the daily burdens. Speaking of swallows
is to admit the need for poetry and the desire for heaven, not sanctified, but live profanely, that focuses on the cornices of the buildings, and oxygenates them.
Maybe I would have never embarked on this thought uncomfortable if here were not so insistent.
I've kept an eye on every day, every day and I thought it was the last one: the thought of Springtime and instead continued to see them even with sandals on.
It 'hard to ignore as much as it is difficult to stop in the middle of the street and raise his eyes to look at them.
It feels a bit 'idiots to stay up-to-head, blocking the pass, forget the direction on the pavement and replace it with the sky.
I followed the tracks in recent months, in a mock distracted, so as to identify different attitudes and favorable schedule. During the day
are sporadic, solitary, but they become symphony in the hours of the border, those transition between dream and waking, between light and dark, and vice versa, then
Each site determines the trajectories: the view over the city, but some way out its design in a net. Come on
Leuca, for example, jump perpendicular to the road, with a roof to the front, go fast, speak the language of the current draw with the black feathers and the shrill voice something that escapes me, but I perceive as vital choral excitement, a fast-paced and precise, sharp strokes, elementary, like a charcoal on white paper.
In the alleys that branch off from Piazza Sant'Oronzo are more bold: they literally dive in from the square with the constrictions of the roofs to secure and bold, as a group, if they knew every little corner of a crumbling, peeling plaster each, as if they had the exact measurements of the lines of the buildings, a sort of common consciousness in the frenzy of movement.
But the real fun is to observe them from the rooftops, balconies in those in the open, like mine, which the city is full. Here are free from the constraints of the buildings, only obstacles, ignored, antennas. It dives steeply to almost touch the head. It can clearly feel the gust silver, sharp, sudden, a roar of wings in unison, which is repeated several times. Every time someone in the ascent from the group is to build some other 'more there. They are black waves, unpredictable, curved lines, fast changes in altitude.
"What do you think? Why move it? "
" In my playing. "

As I write, with my trusty pastis in the glass, I feel the arrival of a windy trail: a crock of mixed blood of three kids on one bike, one lying in the middle, between the other two. Needless
do not ask how or where they are going to fall.
They fill the stage, darting into the alley sang "I feel good, na na na na na na na ....".
play.


Books read since I
south ... "Wind strong amongst Macedonia and Candle, exercises paesologia "Franco Arminio (up to pag.76).

Logitech Update For Vista

Landing sud_due. Over mmmm ....

Find bars and places of refuge goes hand in hand with the desire to find others to get lost and confused.
take the main street in search of inspiration. I strive to take a clean look, as if for the first time.
in this way is not easy to prune the display of appearances, to find a welcoming place, an invitation to visit.
I do not like modern furniture, impersonal, aluminum tables, menus for tourists, he says. There is an air
perfect: fresh, clean, atmosphere foiled by storm.
The light is almost sunset yellow, with gray clouds appease the sun.
Supero the corridor leading to the cathedral square and decided, why not to stop at the bar overlooking the cathedral.
Why not rip the tourists the domain on one of the most beautiful views of the city?
The bar I like, is elegant but not snooty, there are few people, I choose a table near the exit, just a step from the pavement of the square. I order a smooth
sambuca, which probably will pay dearly, but I decided not to think about. The warmth, by long-time operator, the owner convinced me.
This is my third approach, the third clue to the cathedral.
The first was literary.
I first saw the Cathedral of Lecce in the prose poetry of Antonio Errico describing it, reading it I realized we never went.
Perhaps the desire to always look for an alternative to the streets worn soles crazy tourists, in protest to the frenzy of monuments that are fleeting victim's patrons. Indeed
other customers are clearly tourists, languages \u200b\u200band dialects, discourses on the Milanese restaurant to book for dinner, like to taste the wine here, consider what the guides 'typical' and therefore not to be missed.
are too foreign, but the sambuca into a glass that I say here that I decided to live there, to live my usual ritual substance 'Anicia' in the glass, pen and notebook on a table of dark wood. A
immediately undermine the stereotypical image of the patrons of local homeless people from the air from two alpine face burned from the road, long beard, felt hat, they're often sitting in the course. It seems that for them is part of a daily ritual to come in here, go to the bathroom, healthy and then go out to greet the owner.
the bar for me is the limit, the threshold porous, standing inside looking out.
In this square must get in, does not appear immediately. You
teases its bell tower from virtually anywhere in the city, but to access it, to feel children looking up there is a path to do, before the view through a hatch and dance to the eyes all around, up and down between the front and some of the many full vacuum to rest every now and then chase the pupils.
The side facing the front of the cathedral is no exception: the terraces that can be seen above the rooftops, the crock of imperfect walls of adjacent houses, maybe live, maybe not.
A stay at the table I notice that the square is not like I imagined.
The pursuit of the perfect holiday on the corner, the right light for the photo memory will not stop the shouting of the kids bike that run from side to side, shouting strange codes. There seems to be smoke coming from the course that leads to their excitement, even with a phone call to find out what happened, are the real vigilantes of this public space, the only ones that I'd trust.
Another group of younger children with Oriental features kicks a ball and a couple parked on the stairs at the side entrance of the cathedral, a fine place to exchange effusions, I think, I would say almost courageous.
There's also a guy sitting on a stolen recesses of the wall. Do nothing, looking ahead, has long hair and the air was absent. I think I've seen, maybe in front of Santa Croce.
not see the cathedral, looking forward or maybe just think with eyes, is the figure of the anti-tourist, without haste, a little 'lost, crouching, sheltered, with nothing in hand.
He looks like a long stay there and feel no need to leave.
mirror image of the carved stone. Pensive statue.
"Here is the stone of the Baroque as a mother tongue, a genetic code, a folk song known all along. And 'the essential synthesis of a city "(A. Errico).



Books read since I was in the south ...
Travel Finibusterrae, Salento between passions and boundaries, Anthony Errico

Having A Baby Congratulations

Landing Landing sud_due

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