The Agitator Painting By Diego Rivera

A new beginning

On Zelda through RONZULLI Camilla, a new adventure .

Difference Between Manual Underwriting

Library

A woman enters the library where I work and rely on my advice, saying only two priorities: he wants an original novel and dealing with strong feelings. We look at all the covers, open the books, talk, try to understand what the individual likes and the book for her. It seems to me convinced, I thank you, my help was invaluable. I leave in peace, I continue my business and I see and put on his glasses, reads a few lines, he smiles. I conquered. Then he turns the volume in his hands, he looks for the price, it identifies. Freezes. He thinks for a moment. Then, with a little 'embarrassment, puts the book in its place and walks away with his head down and defeat, without buying anything. Not accustomed to give up a novel because it costs too much. Even I was accustomed to seeing such scenes, but captain more often.

Monster Energy Plakat

The polka, my second published story (2002)

was the long journey that brought me back home by train, I thought the Polka in Warsaw. Through the windows of the train verdemarcio the sky was on fire phosphorus, the ash ground, my eyes struggling to focus on the slip of landscapes already burning. The train rattled under my ass, pile of speculation of the past. Great idea Warsaw. Great experience train. Great invention. I thought of the man and Polka Warsaw in triumph, the charm and power of invention, progress, then get going screaming success, victory, greatness. Really great time. I thought. My time seems a little different. Despite the numerous and amazing leaps forward in decades I am not involved by such an atmosphere, rather, the long ride seem very close to stop and smell the latest acceleration of planetary apocalypse. Something must be going the wrong way.

Still, still, sitting on the same chair with wheels that will not turn over anything, compacted in one square meter of a supermarket than a million square feet, hands grasping a new object from the tape, the flying over the scanner with a thin red beam it locates the code bar and with a beep confirms the merger, the printer of the case with a weak ground marked with the price on the ticket, his hands grasping a new object, plastic eggs, swallow a yawn, the beep, strong white light, the grind printer on the receipt of cash, tricchettra, rubber slippers duemilalire, the breath of the customer, to mature the digestive and shit, very hot, sausage, beep, tricchettra, a child cries because he wants chocolate, There will be fifty degrees, out there, and Questro asshole wants his chocolate bar, will melt in the hand, down on the little arms, and then invest everything at least be able to taste his chocolate bar of shit? Beep, tricchettra, a customer asks me for a bag, beep, bananas, tricchettra, a thousand bananas, then please ask, beep, I get by in the new act, tricchettra the envelope extension, thank you, please, icicles, beep, tricchettra , all babies cry, beep, old as well, tricchettra, I want to stretch my neck and play a two or three star!, beep, cannellini beans, frozen in an envelope format barracks tricchettra, a customer asks me to currency exchanges in a five-hundred, beep, take the trolley to specific tricchettra, "that is not acting Machinetta" beep tricchettra dishwashing detergent, is August, mid August, the old air conditioner pump temperature which is a new buzz, breasts semiscoperti I peered more or less distant, absorbent inner tricchettra beep, I renew my forehead in millions of tiny drops of sweat, beep, tricchettra, I open the drawer and two fingers on the sixth or seventh attempt, grabbed the money five hundred who insists on splashing away with arrogant ease.

I comes a shock to the nostrils. An overwhelming cry of stale sweat baby sweat invigorated by the son of a mother's armpit that I do not know what it is, the sentence in my head a stab of migraine.

I look at the customer hands me his coins with his hand trembling.

E 'on one and sixty, sixty years have and sixty hair on his head, her face thin and hollow full of black spots, dark circles and carved black, eyes and subtle blacks and black bushy eyebrows in the tight time constraints and the large and protruding ears, a bit like biting here and there. Green velvet dress pants three sizes on a flannel shirt and brown suits to the Moscow winters. The meeting of our eyes protruding chin in a smile of poor teeth, and holds out his hand in a brusque nod to reiterate its request. With courtesy. He could slap me. He could have red shoes with polka dots. It could be the inventor of the internal combustion engine.

All this does not matter.

show him the palm of the hand still holding tight to cinquecentolire between forefinger and thumb. They spend several seconds before he is aware of this, interface, is at the head of his pallet and lay trecentocinquantalire the palm of my hand, touching it with his sweaty fingers thin and brown and whispered

; "recount."

Firmly tighten the palm and fingers free, keep my money in his hand already half-closed in some kind of incoherent trying to surrender and feel a drop of sweat take heart, sit on the right eyebrow and get down to rigarmi face. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in a little two inhalations deeper than usual.

"are fine" I say. I'd like to rest his forehead on the scanner and wait for some kind of beep, sleep, shit, drink a mojito ice and scratching their balls in the shade of the poplars of the Mugello. I still want many more. But still I get to play the melody of large retailers, to the sound of grace, but of course, and it appears, and beeps and tricchettra. I love evolution.

humanity that runs in front of me I do not like it at all. Millions of lives all the same, which only goes to sneak a second to their expectations, four hundred pounds from a voucher, a gentle way by myself. Blank faces, eyes that cry loneliness, despair, pain and death. They make me ill just suck all the meat put in motion as a single mass, one body disgusting and vulgar, flesh on flesh, eyes, livers, brains shattered a sliding mass and deformed tails whizzing shatters into a thousand different cases and reconnecting a second later, still together, still meat, a nasty slip mad orgy of sweat and dandruff total humanity. I love evolution.

Sono l'ultimo fottuto ingranaggio della grande catena di distribuzione alimentare messa su nel nostro amato paese di merda, ho la stessa sensibilità delle macchinette prezzatrici, lo stesso tatto dei rappresentanti di alluminio in rotoli, la stessa faccia brillante degli ultimi sette presidenti della Società, anche se tuttora, sentenziano i Responsabili, mi manca il loro rassicurante sorriso che pare, potrei non acquisire mai. Sono sostituibile da chiunque in qualsiasi momento, non si richiede esperienza, non si richiede interesse o conoscenza in materia, cercasi cazzone senza tatuaggi, piercing e orecchini visibili per impiego invidiabile da unmilioneedue al mese, inviare curriculum. Basta una supposta e le qualità base del venditore/cassiere model will be installed in DNA. It should be introduced on the piss before the onset quarantottore; are planned annual booster to maintain quotient and occasional updates, without considering the ampliation course and subsequent courses (well other suppositories) for those who groped the escalation in the Company . Here you are ready: smiles and sincerity, sincere willingness, blablabla, give me your money and do not care if you sell the shit, the important thing is that the boat goes, we go to the boat if the boat goes, the Company must, if the Company the country should go, Europe is the world going, long live system, long live the new economy limp dick, ale ale ale golden days are back, cheers mangy cunt and powder of globalization, force balls, buy our shit and give us the money you've earned sweating your shit, your shit, producing, selling your shit, I'm really happy to be part of this grand design, are just happy to feel socially useful, force balls that land begs another toast, that work ennobles man, smile and spend with us, beep beep and tricchettra, rejoice and spend more, then we play together.

Disponetevi in \u200b\u200ba row, ordered on the sides.

Turn your back and fell down her pants.

Show your ass.

Bend forward and dilated il buco del culo.

            Sta passando SignorEconomia e se sarete fortunati sentirete bussare un qualcosa di grosso e duro, viscido, ma un poco soltanto, affilato quanto basta.

            Respirate profondamente e serrate gli occhi, siete i Prescelti.

            accompanied his forces by synchronizing your diaphragm.

'll see, will come without pain, and should not last too long.

A push again, groan or cry, makes you feel better.

Feel fill from the river of life hot, dense and delicious juice of dioCommercio.

Rejoice, you are chosen, the winners of the last, great new contest. The Contest of the Century, the Millennium Competition, the Competition Total. All prizes combined, all the dreams of your life, all the money you want, travel, houses, cars, chips and stallions of the Virgin Mary. Everything like in the TV, amazing is not it? You buy it and you win everything, is not a miracle? Each diecimilalire labeled, each one hundred stamps the card fills up, every ten cards the jackpot, the jackpot every five Jolly for access at the reception.

Luxury Resorts.

Privacy respected.

limousine with driver.

Disponetevi in \u200b\u200ba row, ordered from the sides.

Turn your back and fell down her pants.

Show your ass.

You will feel warm to fill the river of life, the juice of dioCommercio dense and delicious.

Tighten the walls of the butt, if you want to helping you with your hands, not even a drop lasciatene slip away.

Do not pour the life between the legs, it would be disrespectful.

happens once in a million, to be chosen.

of feeling life inside.

Tighten your butt, and you spend your last centomilalire to our store, we deserve it, a bottle of champagne seems to us a nice way to celebrate with all employees, up, the last one hundred sheets soiled by a thousand assholes fucking pounds .

Then all free.

Then all present.

Then everything like in the TV.

Earth begs another toast.

They take me away in five, my theater is long enough, standing on the chair with the usual wheels that will not play ever. Some customers are fleeing in fear, others I still enjoy watching. Run wiped out by the sun flashing crazy ambulance and police, a scene from bad movies. But those who come to pull me down from my little box have the same color of my shirt, the same portrait on the chest, the eyes of colleagues always unmistakable, unambiguous ways the kind of friend who I was or who a day or 'else is up your ass kicked a supposed similar to mine.

"It will be was the heat, poor boy, "I hear a voice sharp bounce from the crowd watching me, that micro escorted by army while I get in the car with the police. The ambulance I wanted. The police even. SignorEconomia also seems to have ended with me .

"The really hot shit" shouted loudly, at that parking stoned zombies.

verdemarcio Through the windows of the police car the phosphorous sky is burning, the ash ground, my eyes struggling to focus on this slip of landscape burning already. The steering wheel rattles under my ass, pile of speculation of the past. Great invention, the steering wheel, that wheel is not fighting with the traffic and the cry of the siren summer tune. The policeman sitting next to me will be yes and no twenty years, and I removed the handcuffs and beats two taps on my thigh, as if to tell me to keep quiet, or that nothing happened, or more. I scan as soon as his chin and his mouth, looking up from my hands. He has a beard to be done. Then I look outside and still smile a little, and I think the trip back from Warsaw, the Polka and the man in triumph, the charm and power of invention, progress, then get going screaming success, victory, greatness. Great time, something must be going just the wrong way.

The heat really knocks me, I sweat profusely row face, my yawn seems liberated in able to eat Florence. I look at the policeman in the face and smile really.

After all, life does not suck that much.

Earth begs another toast.

[ Polka Warsaw freely inspired to 'homonymous song by Vinicio Capossela (passion of the time) and published in Parol & Notes No. 2 ( as winner of the homonymous literary prize), special edition Millelire Alternative Press, November 2002]

Nikon Prostaff 4x32 Reviews

in 2000 - my first published story

Più che come ricordi o come flash di memoria si impongono come fotogrammi. Chiari e dolcemente in movimento, in una sequenza che non è la loro ma che soltanto di poco si dilata e rallenta per lasciarli guardare, gustare fino in fondo. Ne esco abbastanza male. Mi vedo in ginocchio nella polvere e nel fango del campino di via Rodari, con le mani ai fianchi a guardarlo scivolare via per l'ennesima volta in quei passettini scomposti ed a loro modo armonici, zompettare e scavalcare orsi fino a dieci metri dalla porta, poi tirare e cadere per l'impatto con la palla ed infilare per la quinta o la sesta volta il nostro Leo che, nonostante la riconferma, goalkeeper would not be ever. That was the last contest between the sections A and B, were in fifth grade, then we would have gone to great schools and the teams would change. We lost ten to four and it was, I swear, last time I felt hatred for Nino. Then the hate turned into admiration and affection, perhaps in friendship, partly because Nino ended up in my section D for three years and was my right wing. At the school of the great, which is something else entirely.

We just stuck to the green lawn of the classrooms full-time and played a lot more, almost every day, sometimes even when it rained, in those times when only the teachers think of anything else. It was in that year that he began Nino in a real team, in the last games of the season, with the jersey with the number sewn back and the true colors, red and blue, which seemed very seriously, meaning the years, and even smaller in stature calzoncioni those that came almost under his knees to kiss the socks, tied with white thread always too tight on the calf, on pain of movement and mobility of the ankle. We had twelve and Nino was really small. From the old wooden bleachers Fraticini former camp, with ice that defeated numbing me from the sun and I colored the right hand rose, I saw him warm up and get into the field ten minutes from the end, with fourteen shoulders to take over a seven battered and exhausted, I saw him break away from the bears, take a hit on the right , then a left to reach the ball and start the spell, that rock with leather that looked like part of the right foot, all mud and pain, all one, with the coach who yelled the first to pass the ball and then remained with his mouth open and the huge brown cigar dangling, to admire it, like me, small and uncoordinated, their way and jump over the boundary of the area cursed, and then a bear, the last, and then the shot and then down with the butt on the ground that it would not have learned anything, and the ball in the net and the goalkeeper, a bear, really, who still had to understand even just a comma, all that talk. My pink icicle came to earth, and maybe even a cigar brown coach. And he, Nino, not even rejoiced, seemed stunned, awed by the army of men older than him, and his friends gave him some envious and appalled pat on the back and said good, nothing more. He played the other two games as a starter and scored three more goals. The following year he was the idol of the team, the champion, and what mattered, for another two years, my right wing.

            Era piccolo piccolo, Nino, il più piccolo della classe, era scuro di pelle ed aveva i capelli e gli occhi nerissimi, i tratti forti e decisi anche in quel visino da bambino, inequivocabile figlio del sud e del Mediterraneo, le spalle strette e cadenti, le gambine corte e sottili, leggermente curvate all'interno come i giocatori veri, i piedini piccoli, quasi minuscoli, a prima vista inefficaci ad ogni eventuale ulteriore richiesta di equilibrio. Nino era piccolo ed era fuori dal branco, silenzioso, taciturno, cresciuto su una strada che non gli aveva regalato altro che quella leather sphere, no inhibitions, no impudence, that sounded rude or anything useful in life. He spoke little and learned with difficulty, and seemed sad. Many of us do not spared at all, and today the cynicism of that age can not help but remember with a smile, a bitter smile, loser, coward. We were nice and bright, our mothers were doing the race to buy the most beautiful sweater already looked at the girls and when we could even touched, rent porn movies with her brother of Sandro age and listened to rock music because it sounded demonic. Nino was the rat, the black man, even if the foul was not dirty, he knew only redeem himself with three hundred dribbles below and even seemed to want to do, not bragging, not showing, he was afraid. Maybe sometimes I too made fun of, perhaps cynicism or maybe because I just wanted to shake him and get him out of that sleep, I do not know, I know for a fact that art between his feet and began to love it enough, no envy, no jealousy, only love for that magical dance incorrect, the four steps for me worth the compensation and for the rest of the group, the multiplication of the sneers off the field.

In those years Nino played two good leagues, and was seen by the selection stravisto provincial and took it with him when Nino was already fifteen years, I do not know for how long, maybe two seasons, they told me that he soon returned to the local team and I only know that great Sample never took the right road, and never became a great champion. Something was missing, said the men and those of the Bar of campino Zotti, something small but important blow to decisis decisive moment, the coldness of the penalty taker at the last minute of the Cup final, character issues and just. They said he was afraid. These things I've never believed, but perhaps it was. Nino had many goals, he missed a few but very important penalties and missed seven out of eleven in his last championship with the Provincial. An amazing thing for me. However, at least by birth, growth, and we lost a bit 'all, each in pursuit of any one of many lives among which there happened to be able to choose from, all equal, all melancholy and sad approved, each with dreams stifled and repressed in the drawer closed , with the key thrown into the river, leaning against the iron railing of a routine to wait to see your body move, perhaps as late as possible. And he, who perhaps had not even a dream, that perhaps he was the only one of sixty-eight of this unfortunate class petty provincial town, which alone can aspire to something a bit ' not mean, well, he lost like us, a victim of everything and nothing, everyone and anyone, perhaps only of himself and of the narrow little head black, was lost to do the work of his father, a bricklayer and ' scaffold man, that I just can not imagine those little hands and legs in those from mouse, to pull up homes for the Bears. Sante, who fifty years and more of us from the windows of the Bar Zotti saw us all grow, Nino said that the shoes hanging from a nail fastened to aluminum, in his room, saying that when the nail is made weak and would be folded to make them roll on the ground, he probably would have sold my legs, and maybe that day would have said enough, but it is just another of the many stories that I have never believed.

His father died five years ago, the victim of a job poorly done; Nino left with his mother and four or maybe five or six brothers, one smaller than the other, almost all to put brick on brick and lime mortar. Then one of them, I think the eldest, was arrested for drug dealing in Rimini, when he was on vacation, three or four years ago. Salvatore, the only one who knew of view too, got married and went to live in Turin. The others do not know.

Nino has been missing for a year and nobody knows anything about him, not even his mother. Not even took away a bag, no nothing, said nothing to anyone, did not leave written anything, did not call, nothing. Someone swears he's gone off with Isaeva, a Bulgarian girl who attended a couple of months and that she too is gone. Gone, perhaps in Bulgaria. Some people think that they have kidnapped the Arabs, for it to play in an imaginary league interplanetary. Someone else thinks he's dead. Research has a rubber face and shit, and credibility hunted down the asshole, and they seem mute and resigned to anything.

I that I was wrong so many penalties in my life, perhaps all, this life that I've put on the to the sound of nails and blasphemies of aluminum on the world, here, I like many others I imagine with that piece of leather attached to the foot to kill bears in a Bulgarian pitch on the outskirts of Sofia, with his ass on the ground after a shot and broken Isaeva in the eyes of my eyes, I imagine, tall blonde and white, with shoes red and with all those smiles that Nino was left on the street. In her room has never been found any nail, and even the shoes, but found a drill hole on the wall behind the door, a tiny little hole, and you know, some legends are just die hard.

Fortunately, for us who we are.

[ Nino and lever football Class of '68 - story inspired by the (almost) same name song of Francesco De Gregori and winner of the "Words & notes," first year, organized by the Public Library of Empoli Florence - published in the homonymous (yes this time) special edition book Millelire Alternative Press, March 2000]