T an upright, so bountiful this afternoon. I am reminded that we had to take shelter in Perugia of sudden rain. The sky was as now, but was on the horizon a meeting of small towns scattered throughout the Umbria that betrayed the will of the land. In the background, put out of perspective, was Arezzo. Alone and rested. Showing their profiles among the trees that seemed to defend the time. It seems that is a reserve and also an impregnable stronghold, as was the birthplace of Petrarch and the desire to see that there is a vast dawn is announced in silence.
that asthma will be back with their requirements, with this harsh cough and this soulless body, and that fever leads one to fragment the memory until derive it from where I've never operated. Breathing and literature. Is that a team that writers have always been present, especially writers who believe that there is something mineral, transcendent, in his words, like Rilke, Baudelaire or JRJ Because words belong to the air when spoken, but also air and wind and harmony when read. To sigh and spleen internal filaments denouncing the intangibles what beautiful pages or how beautiful the light fall inward.
breathing and statues, for example, or the air that moves in the surf witnessed from the balcony. A wave morning, with too much vigor and with a deep music, brought from the depths of an unknown staff. First
suspense be dropped. What longing repeated in this being. How hungry and thirsty space of sky, slightly be without say do not belong to anything, for whom anything owes nothing belongs to reverence without anything to stand on, only in the vertical, in the breath that unites us with the external and us back to ourselves, limpid, renewed, still persisted in the circle that we draw. At the stroke of this circle speculate breeze and three, in hopes fake body in the night.
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