I'm really the only one to notice the subtle pulse of the street lamps? I'm the only one to hear this noise, it seems the sound of nothing but no, there is nothing ...? Am I the only fix that point in the square where the asphalt is moistened by automatic watering, right then, not another one? The only spying tamarro little boy passing through the road side, with black forelock pulled up from the gel and T-shirt white tight? The only one to wonder if he thinks about these things now and then? A question me if in the end, deconstructing a bit 'all that is so fashionable, too, under that tuft and the t-shirt, comes to my own conclusions, my sense of loneliness and nihilism, the sense of nothingness that permeates Some summer nights like this? To think that maybe, to save me, this is only my supposed intellectual superiority? To conclude then, after all, is absolutely inconsistent even this, in front of the lamp button, the background noise, to watering, gel and all the rest?
are the things that come out in summer nights this summer in particular. I remember a phrase of the "Desert of the Tartars", spoke of loneliness, not necessarily romantic, solitude and just. I'm going to take the book from a shelf in my room, I try the page. It should be around three quarters. I think it was on one side to the left. Looking around the keywords, "solitude", "pain", "men" ... Other than Boolean operators. Google me makes me a blowjob. I find it soon: "At that time Drogo noticed how the men, though they may wish well, they will keep away, for if one suffers, the pain is completely his own, no one else can take upon himself a small part, that if one suffers, the others do not feel bad for them, even if love is great, and this causes the loneliness of life. "
This evening is not that agonizing loneliness that sometimes no one takes those next. Always has to do with the pain, the loneliness, the human condition, life and other silly things to Paulo Coelho, but not so pungent. It's something that might not happen in other seasons. It is the loneliness of the summer, at night. When a small square in the province seems something vaguely to De Chirico, the street smells of moisture recently, the natural cover artificial light, and all you want to do is share this with someone. But not someone at random. Not tamarro gel and T-shirt, even though deep down you know that he comes to these things, either before you by its simplicity, neither after thee for his ignorance.
Only he would know not to write about one hell of a blog.
are the things that come out in summer nights this summer in particular. I remember a phrase of the "Desert of the Tartars", spoke of loneliness, not necessarily romantic, solitude and just. I'm going to take the book from a shelf in my room, I try the page. It should be around three quarters. I think it was on one side to the left. Looking around the keywords, "solitude", "pain", "men" ... Other than Boolean operators. Google me makes me a blowjob. I find it soon: "At that time Drogo noticed how the men, though they may wish well, they will keep away, for if one suffers, the pain is completely his own, no one else can take upon himself a small part, that if one suffers, the others do not feel bad for them, even if love is great, and this causes the loneliness of life. "
This evening is not that agonizing loneliness that sometimes no one takes those next. Always has to do with the pain, the loneliness, the human condition, life and other silly things to Paulo Coelho, but not so pungent. It's something that might not happen in other seasons. It is the loneliness of the summer, at night. When a small square in the province seems something vaguely to De Chirico, the street smells of moisture recently, the natural cover artificial light, and all you want to do is share this with someone. But not someone at random. Not tamarro gel and T-shirt, even though deep down you know that he comes to these things, either before you by its simplicity, neither after thee for his ignorance.
Only he would know not to write about one hell of a blog.
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