begin by giving explanations. I cheated, I know, this month I have not written any articles of cultural interest. I would simply share some reflections extravagant and disorderly, because I need to do so. I find myself in Paris, the city that I dreamed for so long, the city that have filled with the names and pictures, the city expects to search. I do not hide the embarrassment and the coup that threw me alone as soon as set foot on the sunny streets in late September. You look around and you're missing. The reality is indistinguishable from the imagination, the voice of Serge Gainsbourg you step by step as you walk through the streets heated by the coffee and glasses of burgundy crushed to the ground, because an old drunk barcollando ha urtato il cameriere. Dall'altra parte della strada una giovane ragazza con un berretto nero ficcato sugli occhi e un bicchiere di carta in mano, chiede silenziosamente dei soldi e riconoscimento, si rifugia poi nella metro, la casa dei topi, la fogna che ogni giorno attraversiamo insozzandoci di facce spigolose e occhi bianchi che fissano oltre il buio, scrutano l'orizzonte ma si perdono dentro i rumori assordanti di cuffie da i-phone. Montmartre riversa l'immondizia sulle sue vie, e la chiesa ammutolita è invasa da ballerini domenicali di hip-hop. Culti sacri del profano, turisti confusi nel seguire piantine con gli occhi all'ingiù, non si accorgono delle foglie che cadono dagli alberi ma cercano con spasimo l'immagine memory che corrisponde their tour guide for, promptly and photography. The river continues to flow, and the elderly "umarells" playing bocce calculating the geometry of the ball. The people you lose, you lose time, life is lost. Run fast, then you see a man who cries and gets consular see a man who has peed on him and he is alone. The city does not want them to show, but they will slam into the face of life. You have to watch them, we come in and forcibly resize. Everything is equally vain, the annihilation of reality as its brute force. Time expands and restricts the breath, the air is lacking in boxing daily rotating tin. The space is compressed in places apparently huge, but operates dell'ingengo human tended to reproduce a distance that is missing, and that is not found. All of life seems to take a more colorful and sound but dead for this ovattatto and protected, isolated from the mock social malaise but more fragile at the moment when they will come off the power. The whole world is dragged through the streets slippery chasing dreams that you want, do not know the pleasure than to take upon himself the power and will aborted very adherent to sleep. The man who thinks he is within himself, collapses. The man who runs after the rabbit is lost as soon as the lights go out, can not find the switch, staggers silent. The man in any dimension. Because more than a flat sheet of paper is folded abyss that feeds daily. The man is just, but not with itself. He looks around and is only.
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