I want for Christmas this year was hot. Bluntly and smiles of fact, no half measures. But hot. Because heat does not just mean time heat, sun or sea or whatever is around us. No, what I do not give a damn.
I want it hot like the bed when I woke up as a child.
I want to take away the thought of tomorrow, when look at the sky and there you hear nothing but the horn of the machines or the cell phone ringtones.
infamous Grey sky called love. Respond nothing. Long
rounds returns and returns and returns from leave without anything, in the vortex of a complex completion slow. The everyday, relative, friend face the mirror.
Where am when I look out the window? Now I'm lost in these streets, I look for the trail of some trams, but I do not recognize any faces.
Maybe a driver, sometimes a distracted passerby, but nobody recognizes me.
moment of bewilderment, I tidy up. It 's Christmas. I want the heat.
In the distance I see the old approach, the shadow curve and the slow pace. They are my Grandparents are the ones who are here for Christmas ... the closer they come the greater the emotion, the closer they come more salt frustration. Can not be them, they died years ago.
without telling me why, have gone along with the heat I needed.
there I was, without a half away, on the one hand, a bus stop that leads nowhere and the other a pair of old men who do not know, but I wanted to know.
Indecision leads me to hesitate, I get on the first available means, look down, I run after spring. I stare out the window, which I keep open to stay awake and not sleep.
breathe the cold air slaps il volto.
In strada accanto ad una rete vedo un padre coi suoi figli intenti a guardare gli aerei che decollano. Quelli che atterrano, quelli fermi. Ricordo quando da bambino andavo al Parco con mio padre e mio nonno, ma non piango, non mi commuovo.
Penso solo alla semplicità delle cose belle, al loro calore.
Scendo e sono in piazza buia di un posto che non so dov’è, cosa sia. Di sicuro non ci sono mai stato, non è casa mia.
Scendo e mi guardo attorno, tutta ha la sua dimensione e sembra continuare a vivere nonostante la mia presenza sia invasiva, fuori luogo.
Tutto ha il suo senso pur con la mia presenza. Ricomincia un vortice nella mia testa.
Non fa caldo, non è Natale, ma io lo voglio caldo lo itself.
shit from head to 
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