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Primo Livello. Per La Scuola Primaria ePub. Secondo Livello. Per La Scuola Primaria Download. Pubblicare Con Kobo. Read Adolescenti E Glottodidattica 2. Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano. Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima. Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay. A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares. But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: bless the road of your black devotees— that sweet road brushing fields already green!

Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts? Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass? Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed?

Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied? On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies. Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face.

They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings. Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire. In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free? Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words.

I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep.

The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam. They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show. Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits. Adora e attendi! Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili. Worship, and watch.

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Worship and watch. You see? Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there? Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say. Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent.

You see the ishing nets hung out? Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope. Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame. Praise such enchantment with joy, our soul.

Worship its grace! As a translator he has published works by Paso- lini, Merini, Caproni, Porta, and Zanzotto among others. His own writings of poetry, reviews, criticism, and photography have been published in journals and in book form by a variety of presses. Sergio Atzeni — was an Italian writer from Sardinia. He lived and worked in Cagliari as a journalist for a number of the most important Sardinian newspapers. His language shows a strong inluence of the Sardinian tongue coupled with a lively experimental streak, fusing literary Italian with the language of the Sardinian working- class.

Vanni Macchiagodena, St. Martin San Martino , oak, h. Le immagi- ni non sono le stesse per tutti. Le mie immagini dipendono da molti fattori: livello di concentrazione sui ritmi della musica, tipo di compagnia, ricordo sgradevole e improvviso del maledetto capufficio, vicinanza di bambini rissosi, martello pneumatico nella strada sotto casa, non eccelso livello di cultura musi- cale Suoni africani, elettronica, voci umane fra il computer e il discosound.

Tessuto poliritmico veloce e ossessivo. Spazi di sola percussione. Finale in crescendo, violento. The images are not the same for everyone. Obviously, every single one of us has their own images, ones that depend on the singularity of their existence. African sounds, electronics, human voices between computer and disco sounds. Fast and obsessive poly-rhythmic fab- ric.

Spaces of percussion. Violent ending in crescendo. La suola, schiaccia una formica. Le formiche escono da una crepa fra due pietroni squadrati — e si sistemano sotto il piede. E conta: il tempo, alle formiche: uno, due, tre, quattro, ino a venti: altra formica, schiacciata. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente. E schiaccia la formica. Non riflette. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via. Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: cinque paia di occhi che scoppiano, arrossati e gonfi.

La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri. Si ferma. Pare che pensi. Ma non pensa. Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso. Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide. In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: due occhi, immobili, in una faccia di lardo. Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai.

Trema continuamente, II Grasso: i muscoli e il lardo sono agitati da un ritmo proprio, nevrastenico, automatico. It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot. The sole crushes an ant. Then another ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot. He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity. The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. And he counts: time, to the ants: one, two, three, four, up to twenty: another ant crushed.

He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea. He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner. Instead, he simply counts: to twenty. And he crushes ants. He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away. The man looks out at the ship. Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man.

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From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: ive pairs of exploding eyes, red and swollen. The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It stops. It looks like he is thinking. But he is not. The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: a slow process: irst one foot, then the other, slowly. He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly. The Fat Man. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below. Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: two immobile eyes, set into a face of lard.

His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer. He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: his muscles and lard shake to their own rhythm, hyper, automatic. Guarda il mare. E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca. So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Un attimo Ho bisogno di dieci chili.

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E subito. Per uno che parte fra due ore. A qualunque prezzo. Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Anche gratis. La voce: una specie di cantilena, un pianto. Non si muove di un centimetro.

The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. And kills ants. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth. I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you. He is quiet. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone.

I need 10 kg. All at once. And right away. For someone who is leaving in two hours. At whatever price. Without limits. The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. Even for free. The voice: a sort of whining, of weeping. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray. The man counts: Twenty. He is immobile. Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi. La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. Non vole- vo. Vedo che disturbo. Vado subito via.

II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise. Il Grasso, urla. Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima. Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso. Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante.

Impara, stronzo: Signore. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes.

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Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Una rapina tranquilla. Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: bisogna ascoltare il inale. His body is like a tree trunk. His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things. His arms are very long, on his hips. The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants. The Fat Man, screams. The man kneels down.

A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe. The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody. Learn it well, asshole: Sir. The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: a hop up, a hold, a vault, calmly and fast into the darkness of the port. Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango A quiet robbery.

Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment. The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain. Not a trace of his real name. Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca. Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica.

Appena oliati: in venti secondi puoi fare una guerra. Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi. Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca. Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra. Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away. Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs.

Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad. He looks like he might be courageous: actually, he is insane and should be institutionalized, someone who counts ants, recites nursery rhymes, never reads a paper and, if he had a brother, would not trust him in the least. A crazy man who has learned to be prudent.

The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance. He walks. He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home. Recently cleaned: you can have a war in twenty seconds. He walks through the alleyways of the old city.. The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca.

Moses leads the attack: the idea, is his. He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling. He is a violent sadist. He brought the bombs. II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: oltre il muro, un giardino e una lolla, e un salone: e decine di giocatori di carte. Tavoli verdi. Lampade a stelo. Bar, lungo tutta una parete: per gente che si serve da sola: alcol e bicchieri.

Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi. Cento a letto. Si beve. Si gioca. Si parla poco. Calca un campanello bianco. Niente polizia: mai. Dopo dieci passi, spara. Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Fermi, e zitti.

Io non sparo. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark. The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: over the wall, into a garden and a foyer, and a hall: and dozens of card players. The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: the house, the wife, the gold watch ive percent of winnings go to the house. Green tables. Floor lamps. A bar, the length of a whole wall: self-service: alcohol and glasses. The toilets are like those in a club.

On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed. They drink. They play. There is little talking. The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor. Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. No police. Moses pushes the gate. He goes inside. He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads.

Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots. Another burst of gun shots. Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo. Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta.

Arraffano, e ilano. La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: un gran botto, molto fuoco, gente che scappa colla giacca in iamme.

Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe. II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna. Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna. Odore di muffa, e di marcio.

Divisione rapi- da. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Raccoglie una bicicletta. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio. La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad.

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Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: he dreams of a job with a construction irm, as an accountant. Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice. But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward. When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints. The money, in the open wall safe.

They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. The surrounding wall. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up. A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: a huge explosion, people running away with their jackets on ire.

The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head. A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads. Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard. Smell of mold, and rot. A quick split. Thirty for Moses. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca. He drives it into the swamp, almost right away. He comes out of the water with wet feet.

Grabs a bicycle. He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early. The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them. Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria. No: che razza di eroe sarebbe Rockmusic, Clash. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino.

Bisogna mangiare. Terzo Pulmann. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa. E lo stomaco vuoto. Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole. Non sono ancora le nove: puntualissimo. Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony.

Sandinista, a band from New York? Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness. Self-mockery… No: what sort of a hero is he … or, maybe? A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs. Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain.

At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache. I have to eat. A third bus. A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head.

And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Type: wicked but honest woman: she doled out punches to the unpleasant ones with the same discipline and defended her extraordinary twenty-year old chastity. Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: keeping an eye on the knife. Nothing more. Neither Cain nor Anyone else. Actually: Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: a woman of perfect propor- tions, movements, voices, eyes, class, everything.

The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Giornata di riposo. Loro, non sudano. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: i cittadini, si svegliano tardi, la domenica. Ore dieci: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa. Nuovamente, correre. Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto.

Ore undici e trenta: il momento beato di Caino. Popolo di merda. Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni. Day of rest. In the warm June of these parts: the sirocco makes every step heavy and sweaty. They run along the still mostly empty sea: people wake up late on sundays. Beach time is at noon. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing. She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion.

They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: he walks to the water leaving behind unguarded a leather wallet a pair of shoes and a sort of rubber bag with beach wear.

The Nazi has to stop - time enough to call the police, because one of His fucking bullets hit a tire. Fucking people. Slow like snails, and slimy crooks. Caino preferisce colpire al buio, e con molti ripari. Queste mattane gli scassano il sistema nervoso. Le vanno, le azioni di coraggio. Lei lo molla al volo a un passo da casa, e corre a rifugiarsi, in un posto sicuro, per un mese buono. Forse, a Parigi. Di corsa. Una maledetta banda dei carabinieri, in testa. Almeno fino a domani.

Repubblica ha rivelato che lo ascoltano a Parigi, a Londra e nelle capitali dello spettacolo. Grazie, Repubblica, che dai cibo alla nostra fame. Buona salsa, naturalmente. Il raccontino cerca di rispettare la punteggiatura della musica. Il ritmo, numerabile. Sabato mattina, visita parenti. Ha le bocche di lupo, le garitte di guardia, le mura di cinta, i fucili mitragliatori puntati. Cain, is a cold chill, nerves, fear.

Cain prefers to hit in the dark, and plenty of cover. These sorts of outbursts wreak havoc with his nerves. And they are going to give him a stomach ulcer. Daisy Duck is calm. She goes for gutsy things. She lets him off on the ly near his place, and goes off to hide, in a secure place, for a good month. He will take a trip. Maybe, Paris. With the light that leaves in an hour.

A damned band of police, ahead. At least until tomorrow. By the way: Manu Dibango has become rather important. The newspaper La Repubblica said that they listen to him in Paris, in London and all the entertainment capitals. Thank you Repubblica, for feeding our hunger.

Good sauce, of course. This little story tries to respect the musical syncopation. Its rhythmic beats. Saturday morning, family visitation. It has basement windows, sentry tow- ers, surrounding walls, machine guns at the ready. According to popular tales, the architect who dreamed it up, and the engineer who built it, both died suicides, after they saw the end product. A disgusting prison: no even the bandit Mesina was able to escape from here. Piccolo entra nel portone alto fatto per mettere paura. Piccolo ci ha le palle, ma le porte che si chiudono lo fanno tremare. Dieci minuti, cogli occhi del mitra a un passo e mezzo.

Mammai sa vivere con gioia. La cicatrice e gonia, e viola. La passeggiata! Due ergastoli, deve scontare. Due, i cristiani ammazzati. Primo, Babbai. Squarciato col coltello grande di cucina e trascinato sotto il ico del cortile: macellato come si deve, prima di darlo a mangiare al maiale. Mammai recita la solita litania di lamentele: niente tele a colori, in cella, e puzza di piscia di donna gravida.

E rancido di donne sporche. Dice che non riesce a farne a meno. No- stalgia. II mondo, dico io, ci ha il culo al posto della testa. Piccolo has balls, but the closing doors scare him. Ten minutes, with the eyes of the machine gun a step and a half away. Mammai knows how to enjoy life. The scar is swollen, and purple. Souvenir of a pruning hook, when the family was together, and Babbai still living liked to prune every now and then, in the euphoria of good wine.

A walk! She has to serve two life sentences. Two, the good christian souls killed. First, Babbai. Ripped open with a large kitchen knife and dragged under the ig tree in the courtyard: butchered clean, before being fed to the hog. The sausages were good that year: all meat and anise, no fat at all. Babbai was a pig and a drunkard, he had been tender only once, just once, in his whole mortal and immortal life, after the hog had digested him. They put Gigliola in isolation. I think the world has its asshole in place of its head.

And yesterday she went crazy, instead of banging her head on the wall she banged it against a guard. Thirty days of therapy for that. Oh, anche gli sbirri, sembrano budino. Gente di nulla. A lei piacevano gli sbirri di un tempo. Ha persino nostalgia, di quello che aveva resistito quattordici minuti di orologio, ai suoi cazzotti. Ah, era un uomo. Era successo quando Mammai si era arram- picata sul tetto, a respirare.

Grandi come angurie e bianche come formaggio fresco. Al quindici era morto. Cosi, il direttore aveva dato ordine che attendessero, e lei era tornata quando era venuto il buio. Era tornata. Ha paura di tornare a casa: non riuscirebbe a dormire, per nostalgia di Mammai. Cosi non spreca il tempo. Aveva le labbra rosse ributtanti di una zingara. Altri avrebbero dovuto, da tanto.

E tanto, meritava. Comprava le anime, per strada. Oh, no! He almost died because of a head-butt; he quit and is looking for work as a bricklayer. Good for nothings. She like the old-fashioned guards. She is even nostalgic, of the one who had resisted her punching him out for a good fourteen minutes.

Ah, he was a man. It happened when Mammai had crawled up onto the roof, just to get a breath of air. Huge like watermelons and white like rounds of fresh cheese. That guard, the one of the four- teen minutes, had climbed up on the roof and wanted to take her down. At the ifteenth he was dead. The warden had then ordered everyone to wait, and she had come back when it turned dark.

She came down. It was cold, on the roof. Bring me the Grand Hotel magazine. He lets himself be tempted by a car stereo. Then another. So as not to waste time. Sure: I killed the woman. She had the red disgusting lips of a gypsy. Someone else should have done so, a long time ago. In any case, she deserved it.

She bought souls, in the streets. I mixed my steps up in the city, along shop windows. If I ripped up my documents, it was not out of fear. Per imporre rispetto, e cominciare bene, come si conviene, e un poco a modo mio. In sole sette notti cancellai i ricordi. In soli sette giorni cambiai faccia. Mi diedi da fare. Un bel cominciamento. Si diverte, la gente, a spaventarsi. Quanto a questo, era un uomo di coraggio. Venne una Carmelitana labbra di biacca, mezza bianca mezza nera, cosce chiare e pizzi viola, parole di scirocco.

Venne Benda Rossa dei Pirati lingua fra i denti di riso, non parlava ma, Dio, sapeva camminare, culo di colomba. Venne una donna rara, una che regalava, guardava dritti gli occhi, e buona mercanzia, sudore di letto caldo. Disse no. Venne una donna vera col ventre al posto giusto e labbra di farfalla, delirio di una notte senza sonno. Certamente, disse no. Vennero Labbra Rosse di una solitudine stanca.

La donna abbandonata e triste che. The hotel. In only seven nights I erased the memories. In only seven days I changed face.