I climb the stairs by the steps two at a time, when I remove the dress from head Botticelli.
With one hand, dropped it on the bed, while the other I have the black shirt of Mothoread .
wears quickly. And 'much greater than my size, I get to mid-thigh and I cover everything you need. I approached the Persian, still warm and with a creaking noise from old horror movies I open it.
I move up the chair, placing it at the right distance, we turn around, slowly sit down. I have no more haste. The beauty of a ritual lies in its calm. Leaving the
slippers on the floor and with a gesture too elegant for the situation I lift up my legs and resting on the table.
I let myself fall on the back of the chair, while the warm end of a day is illuminating to me right in my face all too pale.
close my eyes for a moment. I am alone. I love the solitude. The legs are lifted and it seems that the blood circulates more fluidly going to awaken the few neurons that the end of the week made it numb.
I can already hear it ... "Nina, put down those legs, but you seem to be the case?? A little 'education, you look just like a camel ..."
Yes, yes, I know my grandmother that this position is fine and elegant, but it is my position favorite, the one that really relaxes me, what I see in most of my natural. When you stretch your legs on a table or desk, it means that I'm just fine. So, Grandma, for once, be excused for mentioning thinking about you in the drawer of memories?
The memory of my grandmother fades as one of the many clouds that darken the sky are sad and warm. I
system even better, the hands are placed behind the neck and accompanied by a new thought.
's really a shame that some people appear in my life, just long enough to create a mancanza.Entrano, teach something, you make love, they leave their mark on my skin and then grow through the back door. I see the trail as is the case shooting stars in the night of San Lorenzo. Beautiful stars, lumisone, crossing the sky for a few moments and you do not just have the memory of their passing.
The wind gets up, her hair caught in the clamp begins to struggle, a lock is a disorderly free falling on her face. It should bother me, but it is not. I leave it to move free from the constraints of the clamp, free from the imposition of order, as I am free at that moment.
The legs are on the table, the sky seems to catch fire, perhaps because I'm aware that I admire in all its brazen beauty, and I have the taste of bittersweet melancholy.
better than that ...
Photo: Rome, the sky before a storm.
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