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Storto

Era sempre appoggiato a un vecchio bastone di legno nodoso. Ripeteva in continuazione che tutti gli uomini hanno il diritto di scegliere la propria strada da percorrere. Lo chiamavano Storto ed era una figura leggendaria nel piccolo paese di montagna.
Il suo viso era solcato da mille rughe,ognuna era un sentiero nella sua vita,una scelta fatta,una sconfitta o anche una semplice e rara happiness.
was as if its existence had been imprinted on the face, leaving him with the thousand indelible grooves.
Another thing I liked to say was that a life without honesty, was not a life worthy of a true man. Although now with a thousand wrinkles and Storto had a life with no short cuts, always with his head high he faced every situation, perhaps because this was so esteemed in the country.
show has always been a degree of rebellion against bourgeois life of his countrymen and preferred to sit on his own, the past had given him more of a disappointment and this was often shy and lonely eyes of others, but despite his often face deep and hardened by the time showed a large dignity of mind.

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When you are sick we only
cuddles, smiles, kisses, courtesies, niceties and proximity of people you care about ..

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Earth

I like the winter, waking in the morning and feel the smell of earth, damp wood.
The cold and the smells around me and bring me back to a perfect union with nature is a feeling material like sex, but two separate entities merged into that single moment.
Well, one thing this morning with my Earth.
Feel the power of his creation, now that the heat of the sun is weaker, the instinct of life is larger and has the flavor of a simple gesture is the embrace and affection of a mother.
I want to render it as a ball, a mixture of unexplainable ties that do not know the beginning and not feel the end. Meaningless as a perfume which I can not resist and do not know where it comes from, as the kiss without which I can not stay and do not know why.

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Back

The sun was hiding and playing behind a veil of clouds was just a reflection of apparent calm.
A flower in his hands, the smell of salt and ocean on her face. Returning home.
On the surface everything looks the same as he had left, the creaking of the door, the same soft light, the smell of roasted coffee in the kitchen, also a reflection of my grandmother was still there. There
within the time had stopped and burst out of the spring.
The dew of the flower in her hands her back into the present. He waited for the night and he woke up to see what was left of her in that past, the smell of roasted coffee, the light dimmed, her little girl, every impression that it was an indelible mark on his soul.
Why some times you have to return to her past to understand the present and the future.