It 's a year or so that I do not make a Cafe of Death. I swear. The coronary arteries are in my party, my taste buds a bit 'less.
But I think, my caffettino tachycardia, because I find myself looking at the class schedule for the second half and realized that if I do univeristario thirty percent of admissions and fat that runs: I have a short deadline for what an elegance of which I speak whenever I can, I have to be delivered as soon as other sample pages to Marvel, projects that (re) taking hold and pushing the accelerator (see the profile of Syd Bonanno head by Manu Cafferini in the post); between March and April I have some 'of dates around Tuscany and beyond with the guys BAND protected and lonely. Where's My Car The whole thing, eh, but that takes time. The journey takes time, more than anything else.
The trip prevented me to do two exams this semester, spent too much time to go to Arezzo in Sesto Fiorentino.
In one of those people are no longer working, traveling, can I make a sketch of obesity on the seat in front of me in that train consumed by rust, I can make notes on some shit that came to my mind, studying a few pages of notes on that bitch Elsa Morante. Little more.
About Morante: A few times I read something as objectively bad and boring as the 'Island of Arthur ". I understand why she can like, but I'll be damned if that is good literature. Not for nothing has won the Strega Prize, is not it?
'literary criticism and fuck Cock and decks: sucks, period. It was a story of being rusty before writing. Highly recommended
But the third set of "The Wire", so far the best. And the assembly code of the fourth series is panic.
I'm tired, shortness of rust. And that is enough.
I go to work.
Goodnight.
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