saudade
Locarno, inner garden of the hostel.
ask everywhere look there are mountains, and this could be the beginning of a novel that lightning never write.
or at least not today. anyway, this week in Switzerland I is not doing well at all. all languages spoken at random, but that does not bother me much. after all, is Switzerland.
the fact is I keep slipping into a kind of obsession analytical furious, gloomy, evidently useless. and Good, I said. it only takes two minutes to decipher the mess that I feel him. a mixture of frustration and a sense of failure that even in a film about the generation in their thirties, those with Stefano Accorsi and photography translucent. try to get out on the one hand, and we fall back. I try the other, and riciaffete. seriously, I begin to feel irritated and impatient.
there is a tiny little thing who is walking on the white screen. lies on 'a' of 'is'.
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