…parlo di sogni, che sono figli di una mente vagabonda, pieni soltanto di vana fantasia, fatta di una sostanza tenue come l’aria e più incostante del vento, che anche adesso corteggia il gelido seno del nord, poi si irrita e fugge via tornando al sud stillante di rugiada…

venerdì 25 settembre 2009

Sono solo incazzato a morte.
Ma non con il mondo.
Non lo so.
Solo detesto tutto quanto mi sta attorno voglio urlare.
Ecco: Voglio urlare.

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