With this number closes the book, I thank all the contributors who have shown and commented on the stories. Without whom this book would not be the same.
confession read this diary, the reader, like a spy, is introduced in the private territory of the narrative of a state of mind, plagued by the uncertainties of amorous desire against which the ego involved maintains a stubborn struggle: 's love as a disease and as a privileged vehicle for probing the inner life.
winked at me. I can not think of another ... The road
.
I remember the long dark tongue split in half by two constants white lines. Constants, obtuse in not wanting to ever encounter.
I know, does not meet the more a woman like her.
Now I feel it. As a gash on his head. Or maybe it's a hard body that rises from the stomach.
A swallow on the contrary, such as vomiting, more indistinct, broken.
The car has traveled the route. The change of gears. Slow.
The first to fourth. The tight curves did not allow mistakes. Inattention, a second, and I found myself having to break my bike straight.
aroused by the thought I do not know which one. The headlights of the car against schiantatimisi like mad dogs. My eyes, helpless prey.
is how I hurt you, and tears. They are fragile.
peeps. I'm confused. Long eyelashes are not just a dream. Perhaps it is another.
arrived at the table, I did not know what to say. It was one of those days crumbling.
not of bodies in pieces, no. It looks like more to sell a lie. You know, when it surrenders any nonsense and serenity takes over your mood. You're well on yourself, just do not accept the presence of others.
you are unwelcome, unsuitable for that your perfect little world you've created.
sat down, she was distant. Three, maybe four places. Too many. However
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