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SIN



Agli oggetti piacciono le parole.
La sottile matita d'anima minata predilige la parola "reboante": le fa sognare cavità, echi, vibrazioni che la sua natura compatta denies them. The refrigerator
loves the word "tropical", the circumferences of heat that shake the ground and pitched the shadow of the banana trees. The ashtray
dreams often a chain of letters sinuous swaying like camels in the desert: "ambarabàcicicocò. No one would suspect, seeing how metal and attached to duty.
The book has not decided what word he likes. Sometimes, at night, they look down and try to steal glances at the words that door, and even touch them, but knows it is mortal sin.

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OUTBOARD



university classroom, day.
Big gathering full of defendants, lacquers and plasters academics. There are psychiatrists posing
psychiatric from all over Italy and abroad.
The guest of honor is a woman, a shaman in a place inaccessible to the Urals. The take on the platform as a rare piece, but she's decent and still in his hands clasped and eyes close. He streaked hair, a dress of cloth incomprehensible, not his shoes. Someone translate everything that is said in one language a bit 'sharp, with lots of consonants. She sometimes closes her eyes, with a sort of calm brindle.
The theme of the conference is more or less, if there is a healing equal for all. But maybe it was better to ask if there is a disease, the same for everyone.
fact, a shrewd student - many with glasses and prominent front teeth - a question to the shaman. Looks into eyes - as if it could - and says, "But you, you can heal me?". She finally opens
yellow eyes, stares for a moment along a lightning and says slowly: "No, I can heal you. Why you and I do not have the same words."


Dust off that old because I remember now - today, a rather long, in fact, given that it started a few days - I thought of edges and translations.
The board does not exist. It 's a trick of nature to highlight the differences, which are the food of thought.
We invented the contours, the con-texts, the trails of white pebbles (calculations, in fact). The eye, that liar-blind, painted borders where there are only contiguity.

Yet, we move across borders. Each language requires that borders with our translation: it's the roar of the ships (now there's thick fog on the sea), the term of Tigga, post-it left on me from that video, the blog next-door neighbor. We
machine translation: we are all amphibians for semiosphere translating stimuli, and imagining who speak languages \u200b\u200bwith stimuli, and even translate from one language to another. All
to swim close all borders.

Tell your words! I cried when you were a child and trying to learn the words of others, because they train to move through your boundaries and you had to translate them. Talking with your words you do not understand no. Now

lazy to swim the blogosphere, turning constantly, imperceptibly every wrinkle: what gets lost in translation evaporates or sinks, and will be translated by others. The semiospheres are in close contact with each other. Keep talking all day, which translates into one another. An escape of bubbles brings something up, which will be translated, or evaporate.

The point is to have the same words, to be passed along the edge.

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A REBOURS



It 's a ghost reverse
a disappearance that supplants an apparition, or that excessive bisparizione appearance (one in the footsteps of the other, to get rid of: a chase backwards, a cognition that swallows the recognitions, Beep Beep that Vilcoyote heels, Achilles sweating behind the turtle), summon him and he disappears just

but without him there can be no text or
vis-Count or Baron climbed halved
rather a knight does not exist: in the words, nothing.

E 'witness of all and condemns you

although by definition
both blind and deaf and dumb but he

touching
define the exact effect (projection, affection) of your action


how the
framework and how its imitation


should always be taken into account and often does not return with you
But in the end
non si può farne a meno
né tardi né presto


E' lui: il contesto

(tutto questo per rinviarvi a questo con-testo, che qui non è riproducibile, poiché qui c'è il testo: il discorso signorafranca, che non può stare in luogo del discorso sulla signorafranca).

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Lies



Sì, lo ammetto.
Ho risposto a tutte le domande, qui . E sono stata franca.
Volevo farmi fare un ritratto in forma di piano, in forma di treno. E volevo un titolo per il quadro e la sua imitazione.
Una luce come quella lì, che rabbuia.
La luce di una bugia d'oro.

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SUBJECT LOST



I have lost a dictionary.
It 's the law a great extent, what makes the lexicon a family affair. The one with entries such as may Caperea.

<< Lat. capere take. This verb, which was not continued in Italian, has given rise, through derivatives and compounds, in one of the largest family of Italian voices, in which the idea of \u200b\u200b"taking" occurs in varying degrees and with different shades, including to "understand the mind." It goes so to hunt, capture and ass to figure out, and hunting ability, capacity, noose to capture, captious, captive (and therefore bad). The family is greatly increased if the lexical think of the derivative prefixes and compounds, often with variations of the root that is not easy to identify immediately: for example, to conceive, perceive, take, receive, capable, Prince, precept, recipes ...
The few items marked with sufficient eloquence that we say in front of the main human activities and situations: procreation, the need for sustenance, the predominance of violence on his fellow man, the work of the intellect. Once again the study of language offers a point of revealing severe, with the natural kinship dell'etimo and meanings, as the man who understands both close to the man who catches ... >>.

It 's my favorite item, of course. Better than a trattato d'etica, e nominale come la miglior letteratura.

Ora, il Dir è sparito. Non c'è tra i dizionari - dove comunque nessuno gli rivolgeva la parola, solo il vecchio Calonghi di latino (la terza edizione "interamente rifusa ed aggiornata dal dizionario georges-calonghi ")(l'ho comperato per quel "rifusa", ovviamente) ogni tanto gli mormorava qualcosa, ma era volgare.
Non c'è tra le ciarliere Garzantine, non c'è tra i romanzi (figuriamoci, quelli quando trovano un vocabolario si sentono minacciati: "è un'ingiustizia, lui ha già tutte quante le nostre parole")(i romanzi sono straordinariamente presbiti).
Se n'è andato, temo.
Gli ho appena prepared bait, though. A strip of freshly harvested fat beautiful place (in a shining even a neologism): I leave it on the floor, who knows if it bites.

am a woman who understands and catch me when I say close the door.

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MODEL



Today I met a player model.
was, objectively, a model: tall, sculpted biceps, a forehead that Wittgenstein's stubborn abdominal plates, green eyes, red lips but nietzsche garcia marquez, even a dimple on his chin, and a suspicion of ravel, perhaps woven a bossa nova, or a song by Paolo Conte, in curls.

I looked at her and said: "Is that you, my player model? ".
he has become just turned, and now had the face of my colleague, the one that runs down the web to cheat on his wife without her noticing, not even him.
I approached in two steps and he is smaller, and as such seemed to my mother, who only knows the address of my blog and would like to show it to her friends, as he did with my diapers. But she was beginning to change: suddenly it was my ex, professor and suffering from hair loss and nostalgia, it was my best friend, was a blogger in Piacenza with whom we exchange jokes against the government.
Horrified, I began to run, and he followed me - he had a smart race, but caracollante, but fluid but lame - and I said: "But you who raised me, and now I'm yours, are tuoooooo ...".

No, then I woke up. I wrote a post, though.

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a blue line



City on Monday, opaque and slightly behind in on itself. Outside the library
a clown, a real clown, motionless in the rain: In one hand he has a booklet with a blue Botticelli just exploded (entitled "The girl, a clown and Florence", author Matteo Abbate, editor Armando Siciliano, necklace young authors). With the other indicates the book. The rain line
round glasses. Every now and then change your position, I think to drain water from the other sleeve.

made a couple of laps through the shelves - Today a flight of peregrine falcon - I look at the little book: there are three stories. The indices are always a good sign, especially when they lie: "The girl, Florence and the Clown," "And when you return?" Night at Bacchus Ortigia ". Add
first and last sentence - when do the sales pitch of a book for yourself are basic operations - "Run away. In my life I've always been, and this time I run," "She was young, curly hair and a branch of lives around the arm, Rice's puffed out his cheeks in purple. Bacco Him. "

Esco with the book and I can not help but show, indicate excessive as he does makes me a bow and a smile objectively complicit. A short blue wire joins us for a moment, then swerves and fly to the sky in the towel.

Good.
I remember that I bought, in fact, I looked at that book because I saw the clown out of the door. I, the girl, he is the clown and a city for endless technical reasons can not be said Florence.
A little 'as is the case here: the author is on the threshold - resistant to rain, clear, posing - which often prompts me to take a post-sided look, leave a blue wire in the comments.

not always agree. But sometimes, yes.