A fil rouge, my lady.

A rouge file,
My lady, who rolls and rolls all my life. What's going on?
through knots and that often seems illogical and unjust, but there is nothing
of unjust in life, because I do not believe that life makes the effort to give
moral judgments on what

(omissis)

And I'm sorry.
I am very sorry, but the blow was serious and fierce and a part of me has
began to roll, as I took coffee and said:

In fact it is a
casino for everyone and for anyone losing work, because the job is a part
important of our lives, gives a precise identity, dresses you with a role and you
allows to design a future, it was also a future of a few months, that
for someone like me who lives the present is already a lot.

So in the great
ship we fell into three, and the criterion is what costs more, that
that produces actually less or not, what is
last time.

The rest are
mere emotional considerations (omissis)

You know my lady,
I can't tell you any more, I respect Base Luna and Soldato Jane, and
I see many more things than they can see, but I don't trust people.
evil and my living room is open: but I will tell you how I feel, with this
sense of mourning in the house, a painful loss to which you can not do more
nothing, and apart from the initial pain then you realize that you also get hungry
or sleep, and you know that you should probably die with
person you have lost, but instead hunger makes you feel and something touches
eat, and sleep rests on the shoulders and it would be the case of getting into bed
to sleep, which is so relief to rest in clean sheets, and feel
that maybe you should suffer, but instead close your eyes and sleep.

And if you tell me
you, dismissal, everyone cares around and you are suddenly
on the wrong side of the barricade, which you see in the eyes of others
The horror of the fact that you lost your job and you are there, standing, as the fuck
Don't cry, don't die, I don't know how I'd do it in your place.
terrible, have you found yet? What are you doing now? What are you gonna do tomorrow? you will not find
place nowhere else, there is the crisis, it is the fault of the Fornero and
Monti, and they send us all to ruin, is the fault of the euro, of China, of
Man Alpha, Yellow Flames, four bastards damning us
taxes, not to mention the banks, oh poor you, how will you do?

And then they run,
they turn and run away, who do not know what to say, while you stay there, a little
I'm going to find a job somewhere.
I am not a murderer, only that things change, places and places, and
I'll change my job, I'll get something, but not right away, you know, he's got it.
I said this morning, I haven't got any details yet.
I have yet to understand why while I walk I feel
rolling, a feeling of extraneity to my body, a doubleness that I do not
I'm waiting, and I'm going to get the tram, aren't I? Yet everything rolls, which you think
to the children, to the mortgage, to the parents, to the holidays you planned to do, to
How will you tell your husband to your mother to your wife, to how
feel suddenly unproductive and inefficient, useless here, absolutely
useless. But then you think maybe not, maybe I'll find something better, who knows,
Now I'm taking the line of the speech and I'm thinking about it for a second.
Home and I'll reorder my ideas.

 

And find it for the
who cares about you instead, and lay his hand on your arm and says
Still, with eyes widened: oh? How are you gonna do that? And you already got a job? O
poor you, what a disaster, it is the fault of China, of the Fornero of Monti and away
So...

And porcatroia,
My lady, huh?

Holy shit.

I walk to
house, port Daughter from the pediatrician, 7 cm in 6 months, is a beautiful
Little girl, the pediatrician, and they laugh and smile, and I think
Maybe I'm going abroad, if this country doesn't want me to hang
Daughter and I take it away, it may also be a bad experience, and
they laugh at accomplices, that the belly hurts but is the influence
bowel and nothing more, and I am sitting in the chair and in the meantime my world
roll, it's cold outside and rain, inside the studio there are horrid objects
who remember small children, I can no more than small children,
their serene and smiling faces, of the moccico che cola, of the colic, of the
dangers in which fever, vomiting, impelling need of
stay with mom, and the pediatrician measures Daughter while I roll rovinosa and me
I give a count that is not bad, they fired me but I mean, let's say
priority to important things, that children are an important thing and now
Son comes home, and at the bottom nobody died.

Mica
No one died–
tells me the chat on the other side- ♪
I recommend, Superkoars, don't be confused, I recommend.

Okay, he's not dead.
I'll stay here quietly
sitting, and I prepared for lunch because this is the role of the mother, giving from
eat and raise children, and in the meantime I keep rolling, bitch not
I can understand nothing, and if I can't understand anything, it's better that I don't
Do nothing.

I don't
questions, I don't give answers, frenetic work on Pinterest, Twitter, Google+,
Goemon Ishikawa filled me with things to read, calls me unsuspecting Candida and
asks me if I can go dinner with her and with people who would like
do some things and I say ok, although in the bank it has approximately 350 euros, 120
I'll have to give her to the gynecologist I finally booked after months of amenorrea
from stress, but I also go to the "work scene" even if I know already that I do not
There's a spider out of the hole. I'm sick enough to know it's gonna be a
interesting evening from the human point of view if it is okay, but for the rest not if
There's a spider in the hole.

But I don't
questions, and where they call me I go, according to the principle that I have been following a
year, and therefore I will go.

And then I write,
My Lady, I write almost compulsively, or with an urgent push
to write, as if writing freed me from my false double life
daily (half and half rolling) and I write, and I will write one day for
well also of Base Luna and others, Fajano and the idea that has limbo,
by Gioia di Vivere at the fair in Milan,
but I write and write and write. What before you get here
I opened and wrote other pages, and for each I could have continued but
you can not continue, that is a public place this and it wants us to smell, first
of all smell.

Then, later,
write.

Holy shit.

Write.