This sweet rospino tried to rimpiattarsi below the front door, not that we lack the Downtrodden and poor. I wanted to photograph and as I watched him a thousand stories have crossed my thoughts. One day I'll write one too, I have the title: the blood of the toad. And the subtitle:
(Ah, if only women would lose a bit 'of their delusions of omnipotence against men.)
My blogghino became heavy lately, or at least I feel so. Are things that happen when you're in the middle and you do not realize if something or someone, or invisibly in a way that you missed, you brought in a swamp. Or maybe you did you go to slide alone because you had turned a bit 'eyes. Unforgivable mistake for which we can not nor should ever blame other than themselves.
Then they open windows that are called eyes and get a breath of fresh air and fresh. Calmly and with the abundant light that we see what finally comes we could not see the lifeless gloom in which we had gone to lock up with the delusional idea that it was full of light. The world seems to topple over but in reality it was upside down before. And then we begin to dissolve those invisible bonds that prevented movement. The limbs, yet a bit 'numb, struggling to accept the new freedom and foolishly tend to return to previous position. But that annoying tingling, we feel an arm when he fell asleep, tells us that we must move it, but maybe we should plan to move it, so that the blood returns to circulate.
Here, we say that now I'm going to circulate a bit 'my blood, but as I say, that the blood of his stuff that is not even perceive the existence if not for a few more or less deep wound.
Blood does not need words, much less stupid and inappropriate or intrusive blessings congratulating him on his reappearance in the veins. But these subtleties are beyond even brilliant minds. Never mind if they're brilliant, sooner or later be able to understand the invisible ... what then is the mica that much.
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