And because I've got the slam, I copy and paste the EFP presantazione I gave up. Sorry but for now my brain has finished the pool of words allowed (XD). But I have the strength to say that I have taken well with jazz and swing. And I guess that ends with my love for classical music / ost and Celtic.
telling stories since he only shows the top floor so * * I happen to anyone within range, making a perfect target of hatred of many people, and I am quite at ease in the genre, even if it is of course, debatable. So, following the publication of two semi-tales, the reality does not tolerate be forgotten - that wants to be a sort of prelude to the narrative contained therein - and Tales of singing and other things , I decided to open a series knowing that this is just the beginning, knowing me. Usually are not very happy because I was a child prone to mental disorders from hard drugs with chocolate - but why talk about the past? Of course, the word "happy" is relative, especially for me. It's up to you to judge, I think.
tired of fairy tales and other things , tells of the real world seen through the eyes of the sleeping mind: monsters, fantastical creatures playing hide and seek in the shadows, so do not fear .
title ~ 'imagination does not allow to be forgotten "
taken from original
~ t ~ ype nonsense; horror
warning ~ if you do not suffer the porcelain dolls ... some words about
~ Fantasy is there, ready to seize. Piece by piece
's the night that occurs after day, while s'appesantisce the sky and falls like a cloak swallowing those still awake.
E ' the night the child enchanted by the evil fickle light from drafts close: glazed eyes long for those thirsty beams from their faces and fragile furniture, and changing forms, free of an uncomfortable reality, swaying, rustling - growing up?
wink the black man to the lady well dressed, and begin dancing in a swirl of velvet, lace and dirty rags. In the quiet
sovereign where every breath is scary mask fear.
It 's the hot bed, the last castle to be conquered, and the circle of fairies swallow the nights to come in an endless dance, look, a swing and this shrinks.
There is a price to pay, so you can enjoy the company of these animated puppets, you who have trusted to be alone at night and you want inked paper cores.
It 'cry of the imagination - or maybe the child? - The one that resonates in the dark night, producing the noise scalpicciante bare feet into the room of his birth.
Why shrink from us, boy: they were indigo and unpredictable adventures you wanted, what he could offer against this dull and monotonous world?
We therefore leave it, after you've taken the best?
Oh, awesome and fertile imagination, where have you put my heart?
Sincerely, ladies dance in China, and their smile is hot molten glass. The fantasy does not tolerate
be forgotten.
title ~ 'singing of Fables and Other Things "
taken from original ~ ~
type fable, nonsense, sad, suffering (?)
warning ~ cercatene not the way: take it as it is.
some words about ~ To us who were born in captivity. Sons of a by prison bars, crystal clear so that we can see the irresistible reality beyond them. So unbreakable by negarcela in a silent laugh. We selected from among many same: we selected by chance, or perhaps fate. This is our story.
To us who were born in captivity. Children through the bars of a prison, crystal clear so that we can see the irresistible reality beyond them. So unbreakable by negarcela in a quiet sarcasm. We selected from among many same: we selected by chance, or perhaps fate.
slaves pass master in master, processed goods such as entertainment, before living creatures. Separated without any mercy, without any request: curious faces that soon would be tired. Those who floated out there they told us how petulant and oracles not required, in no uncertain terms, mocking the appearance of our fate. We who are now a
us. In the privacy of a head turned. Under the artificial light of a lamp in the evening. We who warbled high notes from the throats willing to hand that caressed the ears of kings and queens entertained their meal, plywood board and lodging in our prison by the lock always closed. We who had seen the winter of the season to take away our flying detractors, while we lay under the warm blankets of our hot bodies. We saw the winter of hearts. A mad king, a queen weeping, pleading. A princess dall'infausta surface whose heart would soon be broken, too fragile to be so stubbornly brave. Our melodies fade away, leaving room for the pain that nothing can fill. Forgetting .
Forgetting the dream that brings revival. Not delight most any meal, but we continued with our task, ignoring all the rest because we were so grown up. A
increasingly empty palace, sometimes poorly attended, while other creatures roamed in the shadows. Our prison - but that to us if we were there? We sang, we were living . Every now and then the queen to peep, too tired.
seemed at that moment we could touch her heart again, she is inspired by its increasingly insistent effort which weighed on his shoulders when curves lie down on his throne by the profoundly shaken by the weight of years.
It was a great family full of ignorant bliss, one that needed no explanation. A
always great palace in celebration, with the many courtiers scattered busy. The number of guests, receptions full of joyful music, games on the elevation until dawn and dinners. But
forgotten, the pain never goes out, he added, now in the hearts of those who no longer has time for memories, for those with heart corroded by malfidenza. Locked in prison, forgotten by those who had given a new home.
And then the lady was down for them . In light of the night, had fallen silent and invisible was gone.
had begun to be desired, a day when he was given the ambient light of a spring sun. If this were promised one day they too would have touched the currents to the south, going back to the sea, lying between the foliage hot. They created the life that taught what might be valuable travel.
He was always very quiet, watching her lover, as she puffed out his chest inorgogliosita confidatole know from that and now she was delighted to re-interpret for him alone: the lush paradise for all you want. She had always been very restless, so full of life, despite its current status as a slave. It seemed that nothing had been able to stop it: and he used to touch the lips as her eyes were shining liquid of a poor and humble happiness.
- Freedom Can you imagine? Oh, a song free of any expectations, pure and simple! - she used her chirping, hopping happy everywhere, run from him that called it fun.
But she was still there. Endured the squalor of the hand that feeds, too strong to let someone clip the wings prematurely. Too caught up in life to be able to sleep. Repeatedly shaking the heavy box with his puny force, but nothing else, while the physical pain equalized the moral, dying every time we try again. While the little heart was pounding in a dense lacinante unexpressed tears. Too strong, even to admit its weakness - And defeat.
was there, but not singing. She could not: he was terrified to hear the echo of his voice scratchy only. And that sound could never have a voice without a promise?
How would never be able to sing without the indivisible him?
How would life dying in that future, alone in a world that now seemed unreasonably always dark: how much?
cuddle, watching the days go off behind the dark curtain of night. He watched the now quiet and monotonous tram tram, and others' voices trailed off, an occasional glimmer of new happiness with fear now hidden in the folds of white tents. Away the golden days.
Every now and then ventured a la, but now withdrawing from contact with cold air had his big lungs.
terrified that echo that satirized on its end. Like those ugly creatures that he saw out there, come back again and rejoicing of his defeat. An outside where she would be!
The anger, if he could prove. Feeling so human yet so common among people who are trapped in a life he never asked him what he wanted.
insulted, whipped by malice and ignorance of those who believe only a toy you are old and out of place in this new life that the real had fallen recreated. There was no So no place for those who lived in the past?
One evening as the others, had heard footsteps on the palace steps later.
Someone had approached his cage where he now lay abandoned in his sleep in his own person.
no knowledge of who he was, but saw the fingers of someone cool and graceful touch the bars of the prison, opening a crack obscure but large enough to be able to escape.
did not move, did not understand. But he felt it was time to achieve freedom and as he moved, the song, the one dreamed a thousand times in his sleep, that voice so merry and melodious whispering home . We are free now .
nothing that can not be touched or has or will buy, because:
Who's desert bloom does not want something in you.
Max Pezzali. There are too .
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