"... the life that flows to those who are current and perishes in the closed waters of scabies. And even if we invest, however, flows from 'the other side.
No more leaves me in my place, nothing leaves me in peace, neither the city nor the countryside, nor the hyper plane that goes to the edge of the stone streets where I come to shut up. Outside the city works the hips, to crash. Burns, curses and consumes. The whole earth embraced by the asphalt road, curbed by the development, overheated, creating, consumed, explodes into wild nights, in 'darkness fumigant, in tidal waves, wriggles and shakes as he can. The rage he feels from the outside as a crucible primordial music that pervaded by referring cicada 's a l' other. Meanwhile, I remain here, clinging like behind a rock, a rock 's exile ... to protect the full, of' living the street life.
If it is only in the 'clear water you can see yourself, you heal me, God of the amount by' eagerness and me!
Give me from enjoying the immeasurable quantity, but not flooded, do not make me lose in anything, in the din, the stagnation, do not pigeonhole me in those days formette be sweet, since no day is a bowl. It is a relief ...
still give to my heart ... my heart! He died a thousand times at least, my heart. He lived even dying, brooding death itself, if 'is required under attack, tight, making no distinction, and died a hundred times a day. That's life ... but it certainly does not die every morning, you die once. "
Vinicio Capossela-no one dies every morning
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