Masterbathing In Public

The Arcore's nights

The ultimate success of Apicella?

Monitor Met Flashcard

Se tra noi non ci fosse il silenzio, il necessario silenzio, il silenzio sano, il silenzio scelto, il silenzio che guarisce, il silenzio che spaventa ... ecco, se tra noi non ci fossero tutte queste cose, ti direi che mi manchi. In un modo in cui solo le cose importanti sanno mancare.
Mi manca la sensazione della tua presenza, prima ancora della presenza stessa. Mi manca il timbro della tua voce, quando l'inflessione napoletana ( che non hai perso ) sembra ballare la più buffa delle tarantelle sottobraccio alla cadenza milanese. Mi manca il "bla bla bla" con cui concludi le frasi, quando ti rendi conto di stare diventando logorroico, e che neppure dieci vite moltiplicate per dieci basterebbero a raccontare tutto quello che hai da dire. Mi manca il "buongiorno" alle undici del mattino, che io sono sveglia da cinque ore almeno, ma il giorno diventa buono davvero solo quando tu ti preoccupi per me. Crocerossino al maschile.
Mi manca il filo assurdo delle nostre conversazioni, che se ti dico "verde" tu non mi rispondi "speranza". Perché "speranza" lo direbbero tutti. Ma tu no. Tu mi diresti "codice genetico", "libellule e colibrì", "marmellata di pistacchi", "le foglie dell'albero di gelsomini della signora di fronte". Ed allora io ti racconterei di un film: "Dragon fly, il segno della libellula", in cui Bruce Willis segue la mappa intricata delle coincidenze della vita, che sembrano allontanarlo irrimediabilmente dal suo destino, per ricondurlo, poi, al destino stesso. Quelle coincidenze che - me lo hai insegnato tu - sono l'eco muta dell'anima.
Mi manca quel fare l'amore tutto nostro, che non è amore, non è sesso, non è solo passione, non è solo mente, non è solo pelle. Quel make love, before to be something, must not be many other things. I miss
exclusivity. The certainty, a little 'arrogant, a bit' small, scared and sometimes frightening, that some bonds are simply meant to be.


The empty place left by all these things missing, has been usurped by two troublesome tenants: the fear and helplessness. The fear that one day, your eyes will be lost in the deep liquid eyes of others, until you have seen mine. And there will be hundreds of miles of land to divide you bastard. The impotence that comes from the mere certainty of not being able to prevent.
You're like a book I read, every time I go to the Feltrinelli. Sempre lo stesso libro. Delicatezza. Si intitola così. Delicatezza. E' un bel titolo, no? Non l'ho mai comprato, perché certe cose ci appartengono prima ancora di essere materialmente nostre. Eppure, lui è sempre lì, mi aspetta silenzioso, nel suo dotto angolino, su un polveroso scaffale, tra milioni di altri libri. Lo leggo a puntate. E non importa che passino giorni, settimane, o mesi. Torno ad immergermi tra le pieghe delle pagine con la stessa sintonia del primo giorno, come se non ci fosse stato distacco, separazione. Mi ritrovo, spontaneamente, nello spazio vuoto tra una parola e l'altra. In quello spazio c'è la mia storia. In quello spazio c'è la storia che non ho ancora scritto.
Un giorno, comprerò that book. Perhaps, only after reading it all. Because when something grows inside you, inside and put down roots in a limbo with no name, no boundaries, no masters ... want to be able to caress, touch, breathe. Do not just stand there, watching from afar.
and possession, the mere possession, not to blame. This is only humanity. Fragile, beautiful, courageous humanity. And I'm so terribly human.

Thank You Messages For Wedding Gift - Towels

A mio padre.


I love you Dad. Because we're identical in all. Strong character and heart of butter.

I love you Dad. For the things that you knew me, and those that have chosen to teach.

Ti amo Papà. Perché mi hai detto: "Prova. Rischia. Sbagliare è il solo modo che hai per crescere, e diventare donna .. " ...

Ti amo quando ridi con gli occhi. Perché nei tuoi ritrovo i miei stessi occhi.

Ti amo quando non parli, Papà. Perché da te ho imparato che il silenzio è d'oro, e la solitudine un' ottima compagna, se non si temono i propri demoni.

Ti amo Papà. Perché mi hai insegnato che l'ironia è disarmante. La cultura fondamentale. Il cinismo necessario. L'intelligenza un privilegio concesso da Dio. Tu in Lui non credi, Papà. Ma lo preghi in silenzio, quando vedi i tuoi figli soffrire.

Ti amo Papà. Perché il carattere is my destiny, and thanks to you I learned to defend it.

I love you Dad. Because you have taught me that the real failure lies in the renunciation. You lose when you do not really fight.

I love you Dad. And my chest swells with pride when someone tells me: "You are the same as your father."

I love you Dad. Why push me to use reason, without losing the imagination.

I love you. Why teach me the shame of the tears, and the disruptive nature of joy.

I love you. Why are my living example. My myth. My hero.

I love you. And I would one day avere tanti soldi solo per assicurarti una vecchiaia serena.

Ti amo Papà. Ed amando te, imparo ad amare un po' anche me stessa.

Ants Profiler Extend Trial Period

Campagna TV Forum Nucleare Italiano

a result of overt irrationality media TV campaign spot of the Italian Nuclear Forum that are inoculated before, during and after meals, soWWWersiva_Mente decided to balance just a little 'the debate through a counter-ad.

What Is The Legal Age In Chicago For Tattoo

La città di carta.


Tocco i libri con le mani. Ne leggo le parole con le dita.
Li annuso. Li osservo. Li vizio. Li corteggio.

Qui, il tempo si ferma. Il moto perpetuo della vita si interrompe. Così. Sospeso. Tra ciò che era un attimo prima, e ciò che adesso non è più. E con lui mi fermo io. Metto sotto chiave i cattivi pensieri, e le inutili ansie. Il cuore si schiarisce. Comincia a pompare sangue con nuova forza, ritrovata energia. Mi pare quasi di vederlo, that little punch that is my heart. There, under the breast. Contracts. Relax. It ricontrae. It has the purple color of the wine. Red wine. Sweet. Aged. Slightly spicy. Aftertaste of vanilla and cinnamon. My heart knows of vanilla and cinnamon. How strange that I have heart.

starts like this, a little 'for fun, a bit' by chance, to wander, undisturbed, little used in the double bottom of the soul. I get lost. I find myself. I identify with. Another meeting me. And then another. It faces different faces away, lend noses, eyes, ears, mouths. I look at them dancing in a parody of memories.

wandering through the shelves. Unknown colored backs of books trace the paths of a ghost town fatta di carta e d'inchiostro.
Dall'angolo infondo arriva l'odore del pane appena sfornato. Lì, proprio lì, deve esserci il chiosco del fornaio. Chissà se fanno anche le focaccine che mi piacciono tanto.

Più a destra, una piccola cappella bianca. E, in alto, il campanile. Una giovane sposa, vestita di sogni, procede fiduciosa verso l'altare. Nel grembo, già culla il seme di quel suo amore bambino.

Mi pare di scorgere anche il porto, in lontananza. Groviglio di anime e braccia. Di navi e lamiere. Di pesce e di terra. Ano del mondo, direbbe qualcuno. Ferita aperta nella carne lacera. Gente che parte, gente che torna, gente che scappa. Da sé stessa. Da ciò che era. Da ciò che non has managed to become.
And I am reminded of an old song that says, "Having eyes want to go, and instead stay. Prisoners of a world that leaves us only dream of. .. Only dream ...

A subdued chatter brings me back to reality. The city of paper and ink fades. Like this In a whisper. And with it, the baker's stall. The investigation. The sea.
I'm back in the library. My refuge. My nest. My roof.

distracted, I look up. And I meet another. A snap.

- "Looking for a particular book?" - Ask me.
- "Are the books to look for me" - I answer. He continues: "Found something interesting?"
- "Yes, I think so" - he tells me. But I am certainly not alluding to the book.

We study in silence. Muti duelists of a sudden skirmish.

- "Would you like a hot chocolate?"

That question, apparently out of context, I tear a smile. The ritual of hot chocolate I've always liked. Sa comfort. Tenderness. Delicate intimacy. End voluptuousness.

- "I want to - answer. Simply.

We go out together by the library. Neither took the book I was looking for. Yet we both know you have found something.

It's cold outside. Neapolitans Winters are never too hard. The sun seems to have subscribed to our slice of heaven now from time immemorial. Yet, this morning, a thousand needles of ice raping the flesh and bones. I turn up the collar of his coat and, rummaging in the bag, I find the gloves blacks, purchased a few days earlier in an off-hand shop on the outskirts of the village. Are soft. And hot. I wear them with care.

I see him looking at me furtively. He does not talk. Not a word to the little bar across the road.
I gave way, and we enter. The restaurant is semi desert. A few souls scattered here and there, without a precise logic. They look like extras. Of passage. Or even trinkets, unlikely to make this characteristic cavern of earth.
environment. A little 'vintage. A bit 'naive. Maybe retro. Certainly suggestive.
choose a table under the window. We head instinctively in that direction, though neither of them has made the slightest sound.

- "Are you deaf?" - The wonder - as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
- "No" - she smiles - "I was just observing."
- "And what do you think you see?"
- "Everything and its opposite" - responding.
- "already heard. Retrying" - say - with the contemptuous look that makes me dislike to many.
- "To define is to limit".
- "Read Oscar Wilde?"
- "I should not have?" - Ask me in turn.
- "Do not answer a question with another question" - the retort, puzzled.
- "already heard. Retrying"
- "Touch"

The notes of a jazz floating in the air. Suspended. Merciful. A sax makes love with music. Her courtesan of the past, you let rip his clothes. And, gentle, welcomed him in her womb. Infiniti enthusiasts to have stolen my heart. And the flesh. Countless stories have consumed his bones.

I see him tapping his fingers on the table. It has beautiful hands. I think back to a verse by Baricco, which reads: "There is nothing more beautiful than the legs of a man, when they are nice legs." I would say that there is nothing more beautiful hands of a man, when hands are beautiful. And his are gorgeous.

- "A penny for your thoughts" - he tells me.
- "My thoughts are not worth much "- I say - and I wonder why I ever got to play with myself fall.
-" Let me decide "- he insists.
just lift up your shoulders, feigning a lack of interest that are far from proving .
- "I thought the two of us. Here. Sitting in a bar. Unknown to each other. Strangers to ourselves. "

coughs up. How to clear his voice. Ideas.

-" Are you afraid of what you do not know? "- He asks.
-" I fear what they do not understand. "

I have the impression of having been catapulted into a movie. Of those black and white. Where there is always a beautiful woman waiting for a train at the station. And a man who, in despair, the chases.
It happens that you go up there, on that train. Convinced that he may have already forgotten. Deleted from life. And from his days.
other times, however, remains on the ground. Pinned in the same place. Nailed to itself. The nerves. The soul as well. And can be achieved. It is left to embrace. And then you let even love.

The hot chocolate comes to break the tension of the moment. He started to rain. I hear the water drumming on the glass floor. The angels are the faces, and wash the dust of this accursed land. Cleaning time, I think. And the lips bend into a smile, which tastes bitter resignation.
The smell of wet earth is the most real and seductive, the land perfumes. Intoxicate me. It confuses me.

The voice of the sax timpani hits. Imperishable and strong. In an impromptu moment of sincerity, he abandons the traditional confidentiality, and begins to tell his story. His wounds. The things he saw. Those who would rather not see. The ports of the world where it leads, without dropping anchor. Unable to bind to something, or someone too much and too long. The faces printed in force in memory. Indelible. And true. I have smoked cigars. And drained their glasses of whiskey in one gulp. So my throat burn. And burning strong. As if the physical pain I could wash the blood from the sins of the flesh.
time cleaning, I think.

- "Want to dance?" - Ask me.

not answer. I start to get up. And his hands have already grabbed mine. I drag in the middle of the makeshift dance hall, while I pretend a decent resistance.
wraps my skin in a firm embrace, which also tastes like fear. And wait. Broken dreams. Hopes intact. Rediscover the joys.
And even nutella. That's funny. And brioche French. And strawberries with cream. Hot coffee. Bread, butter and jam. A banquet of emotions.

- "I'll see you?" - Ask me in a whisper.
- 'E' in the hope that I myself - say.

I see him turn and, still, stand and watch. After a while, I go by the local plan. Studied movements, and slow. They are the remake of myself. It seems though the body has to adjust to a new rhythm. Vaguely known. Paroxysmal. Disturbing. And the mind to study a different script than the one played so far. Change the script. Some actors leave the stage. The music becomes the metallic noise of cars. My poor ears.

The road is a swamp. A pool metropolitan. I went off on a reckless ride through the puddles, and smile. In these ponds, very unlikely, the light is reflected, creating a whirlwind of changing colors.
As a child I believed that the water was a sort of space-time portal. One passage, unknown to many, 'going into uncharted territory.
So, I imagined goblins neurotic living fungi giants. Glittery fairy wings, worthy of our national glamorous. Gnomes funny, belly, working in mines, armed with shovel and ax. Cultural heritage of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, probably. Except that I was rooting for the witch.

the prince, I never really believed. The history of the glass slipper then ... Cinderella would not have found, but it would be consoled with a Gucci dress, with a thousand euro, raised at a meeting of high finance. A sexy career woman. Very nice. And independent.

people paraded me near silent. It seems almost not to see me. Dodge my shape like the most annoying of space. I do not care.

cold, put his hands in his pockets, and I notice a piece of paper that was not there before, and now. I gather, curious, and read it quietly, "you'll find me tomorrow, in the Greek myths and the books that tell the oldest stories of love. Do not even know your name. But, instill, what a name? That which we call a rose by another name would keep intact its scent .. "...

smile. It 's true. I did not even ask her name.

Tanning Oil With Carrot Oil

Merda. Ovvero: Come puoi dire che l'accordo FIAT Mirafiori sia merda se non ne conosci il contenuto?

When it is proposed to agree the content is certainly important, but it is also important "how" is proposed.

If an agreement is the result of extortion, the content is meaningless, the agreement becomes a blackmail and blackmail is always shit.

Clemsonbasketballcamp

Scatoloni.


And maybe the secret is to get rid of something, or add something else. Perhaps the secret is to make room for all, that there has been, in what is, to what will happen, even what we would never come.
Perhaps the secret is to tidy up the thoughts, rather than between things. And among the people. Grants to each the right space. That is not too much, not too little. It 'just that they are comfortable. It is paramount that you're comfortable first. And among the shelves of
life, there are boxes made of eyes and mouths, and smells, and memories, which decided to keep in a dark corner, a little 'hidden, why not go for having to lay eyes too often. What will be the compartment: 'He could be and was not. "
And there are boxes made today, now, afferrabilissimo of this, instead you keep well exposed at hand.
And finally, there are boxes full of dreams and plans, and realities that are not yet sufficient, but more will appear. Boxes of tomorrow, a place on those shelves do not have it yet, but we will have it, some time between when the time comes.

Poem On What Can I Do For My Church

Sadness.


Carissima Befana, potresti, per favore, portarmi un po' di pietre nella calza, quest'anno? Vedi, ho inventato un nuovo gioco. Si chiama: "Prendi la mira e colpisci il bersaglio". Aggia cogliere nu poco e gent!! Poi, mi tornerebbe utile anche qualche macigno, una catapulta ( te ne sarà rimasta qualcuna in soffitta, no? Vanno bene anche quelle antiche, dei primi anni del Medioevo. Io non ho grossi vizi, mi accontento ), una fionda, un paio di frecce, e un fucile a canne mozze, se te ne avanzano.

Sempre affezionata, Antonia.


... ed ora mi infilo nel letto, mi tiro le coperte fin sopra la testa, a costo di rischiare il soffocamento, e spero che la tristezza di certi pensieri passi in fretta. Infondo, aveva ragione quella tipa quando diceva: "Domani è un altro giorno". Andrà meglio.

Jelly Bangles Blogshop

Il ritorno del Nano ghiacciato

like myself who follow basketball from the 80 can not have memory of with red shoes in the field Meneghin , D'Antoni, McAdoo on the bench and led the little big man of Evanston , Dan Peterson .

He retired from coaching for 23 years, yesterday was named coach of the basketball team Olimpia Milano. His return is very important in the media, may have a value even sports. The basketball has changed a lot since her last appearance on the bench and will probably not be that a figure of transition between the old and the new coach, but we must not forget that we are talking about a person who has made the art of motivation and ' optimization of human components in its third company a profession after that of television commentator.

Milan probably will not improve enough to bring a new trophy in his own message board, but certainly the presence of the Nano Frozen riavvicinerà meneghini basketball fans to their team and make it shiny eyes to those who do not appreciate the fact that modern basketball players who are monotonous attacks and only the dim memory of those who trod the floors of the past years.

Some might argue that to 75 (you read that right, seventy-five) years should a stay at home in slippers or Hospice of old, but Dan is shiny like at the time of the victories in Champions League and not very many examples of coaches experts who are well. Because the experience is like the height, not taught.

If now the Olympia is a bit 'less unpleasant, it is thanks to him, Dan's little for me, Number One!

Burnt Yellow Bridesmaid Dresses

E la cialda dove la metto?

Past archives' s fatal years, we start again with (hopefully) look the new year!

During these holidays I happened to go to a shopping center to inquire about purchasing a machine for making coffee.
"Sure sir, is that I see the latest models, this is the beginning of the contract.

If only for the fact that they called me with the title lord, ought to be flogged in the public square. Lord will be my father subscribed to a maximum of you can give me, but postponed the.

models that I have submitted all require the use of packaging monodose rigorosamente in plastica.

Alla mia domanda se tali contenitori fossero o meno riciclabili indirettamente (nel contenitore delle confezioni in plastica) o direttamente (biodegradabili e quindi da porre nell'umido), la ragazza non era più tanto sicura di sé.

"Ma, dipende, dal comune di residenza, dall'azienda di raccolta, ma nell'umido non credo?!?" A parte il fatto che dovresti sapere almeno a sommi capi le caratteristiche di quello che vendi, la risposta è che, tranne alcuni esempi di macchina che accetta le cialde in tessuto e che quindi vanno nell'umido, tutto il resto non si può riciclare neppure nel contenitore della plastica, ma solo nella indivisa. Almeno è quello che mi hanno risposto dopo aver contattato l'ufficio relazioni con il pubblico del mio comune.

In realtà dovrebbero essere smaltite nel cassonetto della plastica, ma così come per i piatti e bicchieri di plastica, non possono essere afferite insieme agli altri contenitori perché non i produttori non pagano il contributo Conai perché NON SONO IMBALLAGGI!

Certo, il caffè è sparso per la confezione di cartone che le racchiude ed è il sottoscritto che assembla il tutto!

Alla fine ho rinunciato per il momento in attesa che o i produttori permettano di utilizzare contenitori biodegradabili, oppure possano essere riciclate con gli altri materiali plastici. Va bene la comodità, ma apart from the direct cost (the price of the wafer) is to consider also the indirect one (the tax on junk) and environmental (the wafer ends up in landfill straight)! Let them

Gentlemen, come and take a cup of coffee!

Grandview Flea Market Derry New Hampshire

Strane conversazioni.


Interlocutori: Io. E Antonio ( originario di Napoli, ma trapiantato a Milano da dieci anni ).

Antonio: "Mamma aveva mescolato il sugo con la ... come si dice "cucchiarella" in italiano?"

Io: "Mestolo, si dice mestolo".

Antonio: "Ahahaha ... entrerà negli annali di bon-ton della lingua italiana. E poi, scrivere "cucchiarella" è meraviglioso. Ricorda un'amica del cuore simpatica, e alla mano ( appunto, "alla mano" ) ... la cucchiarella!!"

Io: "Ma quanto è simpatica quella Cucchiarella, una ragazza tanto a modo, molto alla mano. Ho sentito dire che, spesse volte, esce insieme a "Punessa", cara ragazza anche lei ... " ..

Antonio: "Si, si, sono due femminucce in effetti. Punessa è un tipo molto dinamico, e colorito. Ha solo il difetto di essere più dura del muro .. " ...

Io: "Eh si, la mamma si lamenta spesso: Chella figlia mia, è troppa capatost!!"

Antonio: "Assaje. Lei, qui a Milano, ha scelto di darsela a gambe e cambiare nome. Si chiama "puntina appendi disegni". Che nome di me ... !! Cucchiarella, invece, spacca!!"

Io: "Punessa ha ripudiato le sue origini popolari, e scelto un nome altisonante. Cucchiarella, invece, è rimasta sé stessa, fedele alle sue radici. Ma che brava guagliona!!"


Qualcuno, una volta, scrisse: "La creatività è il proverbiale capello che scinde il genio dalla follia .. " ...