I become sad. Gradually, I become sad. I am reminded of that story Rodari, I loved her as a child: Novels machine-made, the title. I have no idea how many times was able to read this little book each time trying to squeeze that sour juice that oozed from every syllable, one-biting irony is the right word. Becomes small, began one of those fairy tales for children of the new millennium, which we do not know but he certainly was 'new', La Fontaine is not enough, perhaps it is never enough. And the main character became so small that it can enter into a shoe, a can of tomatoes, in a matchbox. My grandfather became a Stuffed animals and grandchildren who keep him in your hand will one day find the box of matches, says empty, but with him inside but it is as if there was so much smaller. And threw it away. paff. Just the story ended there. But he said it all. And I become sad, I immediately associated with this thought as banal story that he's incredibly funny and without reason becomes 'small'. 'Small' that word. I get sad, little by little, more and more. There is a reason that is not the condition of being human? Wallow in trivia, take a shower of clichés, it is night-yes, I feel like it. It 's the condition of being human that makes me sad and it is not. It is the awareness that Baudelaire and Baudelaire and Shakespeare the plot might develop a bit 'better, that seven out of eight characters are still alive. And 'some knowledge that I do not know if I want to hear from you tonight, without touching you. I can not tonight. But also to be aware too, is something undefined. Look increasingly indescribable emotion, no? I can not do is cite and quote. Nobody else can do, more or less covertly, and this kills me, no?
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