So let's see, where was I? Ah yes, I was down in the cellar.
The site is particularly worthy of evoking suggestions to Poe as the cask of Amontillado (cazzo!). Accompanied by the lady I began a descent into a dark, dimly lit by the flickering light of my ghosts, great fun. As a kid I loved the abandoned villas and exploring with my friend, are no longer a kid, look, perhaps the soul, which has no age but only memories, and it also plays tricks on me.
I stop rambling narcissistic, what the heck!
As I wrote few days ago I'm living in the late Renaissance, housed in a sixteenth century villa complete with a cave Buontalenti. The weather is moving in the imagination and, descending into the darkness of the cellar, I noticed that Caravaggio painting was already in our eyes the fantastic contrasts of shadow and light that are out of the painting its images, with the meat that comes alive, palpable and full of substance human.
God, the darkness gives me the brain, you would not believe it's the wine, if anything, is the mistress, who has a look at Nero d'Avola and the lips ... never mind.
The silence is almost a presence, lies, broken only by our footsteps, breathing, hanging in our eyes who stare as if it were an image.
Yes, the silence has an image, ductile, very malleable, silence is the Proteus of our anxieties and our fears, if we have, it's up to us to make a ruhevoll.
usually means the basement as a place low and narrow, this, or rather these are immense, labyrinthine, and I think it is inevitable unconscious, even if it is wrong to think in a spatial sense, the unconscious is not somewhere else, there's always been here, right here right now, hides or reveals the succession of waking and dreaming.
Like a river, smooth and runs through our flesh from within and from without, forging the terms of our faces beyond genetics, perhaps every wrinkle is a story, and now many stories about my branch face. My friend likes to turn it over like an hourglass, is a little 'witch, and my eyes, she says, shine or took offense at the time, according to the time that remains for me to love it.
I laugh, because she does not see his ... And meanwhile we continue
playing to the ghosts, the shadows of a niche, knowing how much light there waiting just outside.
Reborn?
Continuously.
transfigured But here you see things from the shadows, I saw myself chained to a wheel at the time of the Inquisition, then you are walking on a tightrope on a dream. How many times I fell while trying to reach a face at the other end of the rope. But, stubbornly, falling, I managed to take away with me at least the image of that face, making it sound to slip into the abyss at the end of the dream. I brought smiles and words of love, listening to the first and observing the second, exactly the opposite of what does the consciousness.
The lady smiles, smiles with his deep, without wrinkles, and yet so full of stories to illuminate the time being, free from a hurry.
And this allows me to play my favorite game, because of time and motion pictures.
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