Dear bloggers, in this Italy (the the lowercase is intentional) chaotic and cold, Bach played by my daughter to comfort me. I write pages that do not place tiring because I seem to have a sound fake, perhaps because the discipline does not like to amateurs like me and then the subconscious takes revenge and the words, the atmosphere does not sound like yours. Maybe it's just the natural evolution of the writing or fear (unconscious) to see your wish come true. It seems absurd to be afraid of their desires. "Careful what you want!" You have to be careful ... sometimes touching, but not too much though. Meanwhile, my poor Sisyphus works running from one side of this stupid town, dodging green flags and Christmas trees, fake fur and synthetic personae. And only Bach played by my daughter to comfort me.
I've said (written)? You see that old!
Cerea
Bartel
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