I light up, carefully, a cigarette on the gas stove.
I'm out of bed. That
read that you warm with all that anger.
it continue to fill spots mascara.
My feet are cold, do not even try to warm them, I do not have enough strength to search for socks.
I sit.
I focuses on the same things, again.
The white sky, the sky of milk, the sky above the gray walls of the courtyard. On
fake white marble, which never seems clean.
And that leaves the tissues around.
An empty bottle of milk on the table.
bread of yesterday locked in an airtight container.
dirty pans and a coffee pot with the bottom inside over the stove.
will fill the tank slowly, pour the soap a dark green water that is deposited on the bottom and the awkward start to unfold and to white foam.
I'll be naked and run for home.
Perhaps the lady of the house in front could see me.
"Well?" It's got a husband? Or a child? Do not pretend to be scandalized, There's nothing here that you have not already seen. "
I feel Bogart, so tough talk, even if only with myself.
speck of china, of ecoline, coffee and dirty water on my gray trousers from home, laid out to dry brush over the sink along with the cutlery.
A dirty cutting board with the cheese sandwich that I prepared before leaving home.
Two cups, six cups, four spoons, a plate, a knife and a fork.
in the sink, I mean.
I found the street, returning drunk, an old typewriter.
I collected, I took her home and tried to write, it worked.
The letter reminds me of 22 a barbed green jacket, a cigarette in spring and the grease head.
Pavese.
but I do not think that I've ever had.
Three jars of jam, fresh grapes and a pomegranate, and two tagged fish, three types of cheese and half a pack of bacon diced sweet.
The archaeological survey of my refrigerator. What is our
.
morning me and I'll scratch my back I bite my neck, hard. Forte. Maybe I
the signs, try to look after.
I am a bit 'stomach hurt.
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