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pavanese me an absurd delight, with the dim light the candles for thirty of its river, the sound of a dream long ago that the continual and obsessive Limentra, including donuts and rubbish, Stefania has left something to me the shot panella grows while the pasta, I'm not going to find more words to tell you that I find old things with new clothes. Small town, you bastard place, and the eskimo who knew you, if I had foreseen all this, maybe I'd do the same, then the sadness enveloped us like honey, honey and yeast and the volume doubles, the hot oven, the day lights as a moment of deja-vu shadow youth, grain, brush, like being in a bakery, stand, lace, mustache, anise and cinnamon. That sleep, disappeared in a flash, a hope in heaven of Prague ...
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