Every time I try to change the road is your ghost that stops me. I am slow to walk, often hesitates at a crossroads, but you do not stop me and make me pass. I want to go back but I'm afraid to share my thoughts with that. That place does not allow you not to think. Gives you the illusion, you think that there is nothing more than water but not so.
Norway is melancholy. Each trip is melancholy. This house with walls that collapse is melancholy. ... All I remember thee, the sheets of paper, photographs, sheet, that are interwoven in the legs.
's all gloom, it's all I want to vomit throw out thrusting two fingers in his throat. I sweat and I feel calm only if the water splashes that I arrive on the face, while I cling to my gray jacket and I think I should have known that the North is colder.
I still want to get lost in the mountains, walking on pieces of wood, thinking only of silence and the rain and not to us that we have not for a while ', and You know what, I know that is how things should go.
Pisa, hot, tight, nasty, slutty, alcoholic ... jump into the Arno and without sucking mosquitoes and robbers with your portfolio. Then come back to me Norway, with cafes that smell of dirty water and lack of sunshine that you first and then you squeeze a baby cot.
now floating, swimming, and eventually drown in the air. I want to climb on the rocks with bare feet and I will also not your outstretched hand.
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