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I do not know what happened but now everything seems fragile and transparent.

coffee, my post it, the flowers on the table. Listening to strokes early in the morning, a Fellini movie before bed. It 's all so familiar and completely alien.

Living with the constant feeling that something is going to happen and notice the small differences from day to day, but make sure that everything is silent, that the days remaining unchanged.

I remember things, small and big ones, but I remember them. As the end of the poem recited a June evening. Just in that poem I came to Venice, by chance, (because the case is an exceptional comedian) and at times I fall to the ground. I look at people in the eye in the hope that recognize my eyes, but it never happens and I think it's because the look is not most, will never be the same.

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just to add my on Coppola's film, left me saddened to see a whole audience laugh and make fun of a poor devil who messed up a bit 'to make a plate of spaghetti, and remain indifferent to the spectacle of misery that are the ten-minute film set in Italy.

course, however, the Italians know how to make them spaghetti.

But I liked the movie. Maybe it's a bit 'thinner than I hoped, but the expectation was high and they do not, I am disappointed.

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readings

Day with closed shoes, very early this year. I was stamping out

confident in my shoes this morning, but then I went back to get my sneakers.

September: the only time of year when I put my sneakers, the arrival of the Christmas market, the fair, and so on.

September, new beginnings.

hang a picture, remove the open-air cinema poster from the fridge, you feel the need to be embraced, with the arrival of the first frost.

In these days of new beginnings I feel the need to re-read things I've read, as if I needed to return to an area where I walked, to review as it is now that I am completely different. Things quickly. Some pieces of essays, some short story by Flannery O'Connor, the ending of a novel by Barth, and then Pascale.

E 'that happened while I was at sea I find bedside table is a collection of short stories by Pascale that had been forgotten there for a bit 'of the summers before my friend. For a moment there I noticed. But then there was one night when I could not sleep a wink because I fought with the fear that there was a mouse under the bed. I'm not a scary time, almost to nothing, but the mice terrify me. It was late and I could not wake anyone, and I would not get up because I feared that I could have come face to face with my enemy. So I started to (re) read.

Was it all that silence and the low light, but the tension has eased the fear and I found myself surrounded by a kind of closeness to certain words and certain suspensions.

I'm back on a road already traveled and I've found something completely new. E 'was exciting.

The next morning I reported the matter to my friend and she said she finds that there is a kind of correspondence between my character and the way in which he writes Pascale.

I felt very flattered.

Then, however, the mouse was really. But maybe I should be his grateful.