Morpheus, you will not have my scalp! Maybe I'll 
Sleep is some die
I remember that night I and Henry, after we got drunk, parked the car on the pier in front of the sea. We smoked the last cigarette before you go home. But Henry, after a few words mumbled, slept in stone. And I, in silence, I was thinking.
those nights when I went with Nadine at home. Stopped the car in the dark, a little 'in front of his door, and remains there to pour passion. That gate, bulwark overlooking other worlds, marked the border between desire and responsibility. And it was in limbo and its finitude that exploded and was consumed space of the dream.
I thought at the time that I dedicate to disproportionate unnecessary thoughts, minimal, irrelevant. The only things that really matter in life are health and love. But both are not an idea, but a condition unrelated to any reasoning. When you think you spend your thoughts to the welfare and feelings in reality is nothing but you're dealing with. Just like at the moment.
I thought about how I wanted my life to be like the scripts of those great movies where every person knows what to say, when to say it and how to say. Where thoughts are full brilliant, original, humorous, profound. Where we never talk about the time and unbearable repetitiveness and banal everyday perpetuated indefinitely.
snaps in. I thought, unique and unrepeatable, of the myriad of combinations that had led to meetings of my life and those single, seemingly insignificant, that they had avoided others.
I thought about that time when Nadine, after having observed for a few seconds, he said: "I'm trying, but I can not see anything that I do not like."
what I thought was true Stendhal's phrase: "The passion is not blind, is visionary."
I thought because everything escaped me out of hand. As far as the elusiveness of everything turning into a living emptiness. Sometimes I wanted to stop the moment, a moment any and dilate until the end of time, to be sure, as well as the impression of having truly lived.
I smell of Spring.
I thought the essence of things escapes us, always. For distraction, inertia, habit. Or maybe just for vanity.
I thought about what I changed in the past, its interpretation, whereas this was, if only I had known what we now know, or think I know. Perhaps nothing. The unawareness often amounts to innocence and innocence lost stripping the intoxication of dreams.
who I was gone. What is our idea of \u200b\u200bright did not belong to this world. The shooting death in the heap, only heart, as long as pulses, has the features of the truth. I
unspeakable. It would, contrary to what we think, is much easier to express the cruelty, brutality, wickedness, than we can carry them with respect, with beautiful, with puro.Il True love is indescribable.
At one point, Henry began to show signs of life. He opened his eyes and rubbing well after esserseli, said
- "What did I sleep?"
- "Half an hour"
- "And you?"
- "I"
- (yawn) "It means that you lost half an hour of sleep. "
(Jaenada)
