Author of quotes: Emanuele Rossi

I laughed, cried, rejoiced and mourned, listening to his speeches, smooth, well-built without hesitation, without a hitch fuck he memorized his signature role.
He never wanted me to enlist or impress: he just needed to confess, to tell about life, which it seems he no longer belonged.

But at the end of it all, if all cut from the same dirt, what is there to understand?
Nothing, or very little... only that the courage to live, to assert itself possesses only the person who really wants to say something, not storing time, not waiting for Fate (sometimes manage to disturb even the Lord God) will help them to understand that there is nothing to understand...

Why would it need patience?
Why, in fact, people who kill time on self-deception.. do not open anything new, even if it lay right under the nose, argue, fairly short, and argue in the end, truthfully, what really strive to understand.

Nothing to worry about: a little wait. Put some coffee on, so kill the sadness... no... people say, "time to kill", right?

He spread his arms, stretched himself on the bed. Pulled feet, slightly bent legs, as in a classical image of Christ. A little caved in. And felt a deep emptiness.

Time inside it slow. He fell into a deep sadness before I realized that the seconds did not pass. The moments of universal darkness. The phone was awakened from a scythe to his muteness. In the distance seething coffee.

He was not a slave to habits - so, at least, he thought. He was infatuated with the soul not to the habit, and thoughts. And this is justified.

There, in the water, drowned the questions which he, out of respect for myself, never did not think about that. Heard them but not listened. That is so simple.

Time walked and walked, harmless, indifferent, closed in on itself. Tequila has ended. The people in the bar a bit. Person new, but looks the same. The walking boredom, personified in the ghostly fingers that twirled the glasses that they would be reflected in the sparkling surface of the tables. Women, big and strong, like a glass of whiskey without ice. Men, at whose head one work, and on the faces of all those imperfections. Young men, trapped in an alien environment, drinking coffee, trying to keep up appearances. Kind of sloppy, but to the regulars it is far. There are five or six men: all different, full of mystery; of their boxes, covered with bones and skin; there are hidden deeds and dreams, a hidden common to all reality or imperfections, which will eventually show up.

I live alone patented.

Time slipped in to the brain Margibi, entered somehow without leaving a trace. Sadness took its place, the sadness was on a horse, but that's not the problem.

Bald took refuge on the top of the brain, where fell these thoughts, and forgetting about sunk into the abyss, declared them missing.

Darkness is a good guide in the darkness of forget how real things look, and Margibi plunged into the black depths of his consciousness.

The time has gone without asking permission.
Days and weeks had dragged wingless, then speeding up, then slowing down the progress, depending on how the wind of life, blew the sails. "Why" and "how" - shots of the lot, the measurement of depths; in the end sinking to the bottom, on the couch and you feel it coming cold, summer; a sweater or turn up their sleeves - spring comes knocking on the door times of the year for its swallows and outside air temperature which is several degrees increases with each passing day. And here is in the circumstances a point when you start to remember, to summarize. The arrival point is defined: you are experiencing it. But the point of departure is necessary to extract from the registers of memory, checking accounts, debit and credit. Sometimes sum up, from previous revision, and sometimes from a turning point, which gave rise to the recent past thee period.