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Il traffico, lo smog, their horns and people at the traffic light with my mobile. Lord holding spending in the eye and the questions, a painter who paints a railing, pulling children kicking a ball fake to the wii. This morning I put a jacket and went out in the sun of a city, my, because even if you're a pain, these roads will have grown and makes no sense to be afraid. I then searched my record store, the store that sold me the music of Miles Davis and Coltrane, who taught me to love those notes and that spell. Instead, save music is gone. A damper is too black and rent a dusty faded in the windows where I spent hours dreaming and choose which disk I bought on Saturday. But Holy shit, have Saved closed. The Lord of the next tobacco, seeing petrified at the shop of a sudden ... "Young inderess the rent? By mo cà closed Cidda of KUD, je the creis. Easter eggs in the bags, Snai betting shops everywhere ... "Italy to win, Italy changing, dreaming Italy, Italy of Values \u200b\u200b(and Urine)" ... everywhere on the walls. Came home while I was trying to figure out if my life has become so unreal contours, not to recognize even more the town where I grew up until I realized that I was close as the shoes of the Communion, or if all the cities now resemble Italy and is therefore frightening to those who walk and looks scared like me, people who urla impazzita dalle macchine a chi cammina a piedi. Sarà una nuova tendenza, maybe. Da Martedì mi rimetto in moto come sempre quando mi fermo qui per più di sette giorni, se mi metto a guardare poi devo scappare ma stavolta non fuggo, ho da fare sul serio e sono appunti importanti e veri che porteranno in punta di piedi alla prima Spagna della mia vita tra neppure un mese. Nel frattempo metto in ordine gli appunti e scrivo e studio e penso a Salvati Musica e alle vetrine impolverate e alla sedia verde del titolare che è rimasta lì dentro in mezzo alle pareti vuote consumate dalle note, quelle note così belle anche un po mie.
Il traffico, lo smog, their horns and people at the traffic light with my mobile. Lord holding spending in the eye and the questions, a painter who paints a railing, pulling children kicking a ball fake to the wii. This morning I put a jacket and went out in the sun of a city, my, because even if you're a pain, these roads will have grown and makes no sense to be afraid. I then searched my record store, the store that sold me the music of Miles Davis and Coltrane, who taught me to love those notes and that spell. Instead, save music is gone. A damper is too black and rent a dusty faded in the windows where I spent hours dreaming and choose which disk I bought on Saturday. But Holy shit, have Saved closed. The Lord of the next tobacco, seeing petrified at the shop of a sudden ... "Young inderess the rent? By mo cà closed Cidda of KUD, je the creis. Easter eggs in the bags, Snai betting shops everywhere ... "Italy to win, Italy changing, dreaming Italy, Italy of Values \u200b\u200b(and Urine)" ... everywhere on the walls. Came home while I was trying to figure out if my life has become so unreal contours, not to recognize even more the town where I grew up until I realized that I was close as the shoes of the Communion, or if all the cities now resemble Italy and is therefore frightening to those who walk and looks scared like me, people who urla impazzita dalle macchine a chi cammina a piedi. Sarà una nuova tendenza, maybe. Da Martedì mi rimetto in moto come sempre quando mi fermo qui per più di sette giorni, se mi metto a guardare poi devo scappare ma stavolta non fuggo, ho da fare sul serio e sono appunti importanti e veri che porteranno in punta di piedi alla prima Spagna della mia vita tra neppure un mese. Nel frattempo metto in ordine gli appunti e scrivo e studio e penso a Salvati Musica e alle vetrine impolverate e alla sedia verde del titolare che è rimasta lì dentro in mezzo alle pareti vuote consumate dalle note, quelle note così belle anche un po mie. 
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