Khalid somiglia a un piccolo topo. Quando sorride i suoi denti si sporgono gentilmente in avanti ed è cautamente orgoglioso della sua familiarità con questa lingua, un tempo sconosciuta, e che adesso impara a pronunciare. Indossa sempre un bomber che ha imparato a chiamare "giubbotto". Usa sempre il termine ogni volta che deve costruire una frase, quando i suoi insegnanti vogliono metterne alla prova l’apprendimento. Lui saluta tutte le volte che va via. Saluta, ringrazia e probabilmente pensa sia più grande ciò che il suo insegnante dona lui di quello che lui dona a chi lo introduce alla comprensione elementare delle frasi di convenienza di una lingua che non c’è. La sua ingenuità non conosce ancora l'egoismo del dono e il feticismo cristiano della benevolenza. Non conosce il masochismo di Cristo, Khalid, e del profeta ha un'immagine morigerata e distratta. Non frequenta le moschee, è certo un musulmano della domenica ma non immagina quanto gli peserà quella semplicità appresa, quella nuova lingua, quando, senza volerlo, le sue contraddizioni e i suoi paradossi entreranno nella sua vita tradizionale.
E' così fragile il bene, come un terreno lentamente lambito da un mare, che dentro penetra di vene d'acqua salata e lentamente corrode. L'usura del tempo cancella i colori e avvicina la visione del mondo a una Cold soft indistinct portraits.
<< "Ciao Khalid", dentro la sua piccola Karachi a misura d'uomo, le macchine frenano all'improvviso tracciando a terra l'impressione di gomme bruciate, odori di kabab e spezie misti a una nebbia che sa di bruciato, strane firme si leggono sui muri che non riesco più a leggere con la coscienza del mio tempo giovane. "Ciao maestro", odio questo saluto ma quella gentilezza fanciullesca e antica al tempo stesso annulla le mie consolidate idiosincrasie. E non amo nemmeno questo odore intenso, acre di fordismo alimentare, nè sopporto le barbe e i cappelli dei religiosi o il canto strozzato in gola e ossessivamente ripetuto delle preghiere notturne. "Datemi le vostre numerose masse" recita la Statua della libertà, proiettando le sue viscere d'acciaio verso un oceano crudele, "e le libereremo dalla libertà falsa" risponde Karl Marx dall'altro lato. E si avvicinano, Marx con la sua ampia fronte e i capelli imbiancati; la Statua della libertà con il suo sguardo cieco, come due amanti accomunati dal fato di Tiresia. "Datemi le vostre numerose masse" e col pegno delle vite degli altri non faremo altro che restituire imprevedibilità a una storia che non conosce profeti >>.
Master now lived many years and yet is young, his body was cheered on other bodies, know the baseness of deceit and disillusionment by the greater desires, and what still believe in some of its old ghosts, continues to wrong. But there is perhaps greater danger of a life without passion? I challenge you to blame this selfish altruism, lost in the jungle of lights and fog of a Rome that is dying, because if you are not Nietzsche, if you are not experienced until the end result of the absolute word on things in their lives, you have no right to judge. Cowards only have the right to silence. Perhaps Frank is aware of this and without knowing whether or not today is cowardly silent for safety. On street corners, closes his eyes lowered to the ground and walks with a perfection worthy of divine grace, stroking just the street lamps. Their light is diffused in a cold November away, away the smell of the great cemetery of the city center. "Teacher" thinks Francis, with his broad shoulders and a black coat as a frame to her self-mocking smile and his insomnia grown since the early years of university study.
Khalid instead turn the corner and go home. In the night not yet know the fear and beauty, it reminds him he hates the way he sees the day in the morning, before starting to work. At six is \u200b\u200balready a market where low fruit boxes until one o'clock in the afternoon, with the moisture that gets into the bones and the smell of rotten stuff gone bad. At four and a half wakes up, makes a quick shower, take a coffee and cram it into a night full of hands that build the houses that our parents give us abundant filling them with goods that only the misery of the rich can be. These clubs make a terrible stink, you feel the sweat on him even before he had worked and Khalid, who has a sense of the reasonableness of certain things, you know that this is bad. For this evening back soon sleep and when it comes to Italian class has two hearts, one telling him to remain and the other who knows the trouble in the eyes of the morning without sleep and no shower.
around the corner of Francis there is nothing but an endless boredom and the need to accumulate experience in order to arrive later at night with the impression of having done something for which you feel deserves to stay. And when people do not sleep, drink, and then slipped inside the covers made in bulk. Try a warm feeling in quell'accoppiarsi and wool duvets, as a textile collage on his skin. When Khalid teaches new words and moves, with some practice, including different languages, try a strange satisfaction. There is some utility to feel useful and not notice the next day, when pulled down, as would happen otherwise, even the mattress because this time it has continued to tossing and turning without ever finding peace of exhaustion.
's so strange that almost Khalid's happiness is to believe that everything is a fiction, even her look innocent and virtuous, nothing but the semblance of a thought yet not too refined in the game of recrimination. It would certainly be happy to think of reactionary stuff he has, because what he is little. Why is exploited because they did not like brushing properly or has a place to sleep that is not a room shared with four other people. "Give me your number masses" and we teach them not to be satisfied. But until when? What is the limit beyond which it becomes egolatria dissatisfaction? Francis has exceeded that limit for some time and now tries vainly to get back to a condition of respectability now lost. and meet, without having anything to do in their transaction of the good feeling that the end is an obligation for each other and return the unearned. They intersect in the vain hope to be like, resemble a little bit more. But no matter how they try, as far as trying to get the fringe in the mirror on the same side, are as distant as the sun and the night. And teach one another words to communicate or not to continue, perhaps even worse to find sempre più intimo a un mondo a cui non appartiene. Uno insegnerà all'altro le parole per comprendere il proprio suicidio o l'esigenza di andare via, quando ciò sarà possibile.
Il cosmopolitismo, vano inganno per massoni impenitenti che dà vita a pessime poesie cacofoniche e all'irragionevole speranza di chi vorrebbe ancora trovare nell'assenza di limiti e confini un senso nuovo. E così pensa un occhio interiore, che porta ai tempi andati un critico rispetto, ma non ama loro così come non ha fiducia nel futuro.
Un semplice occhio interiore, timido sull'uscio della nostra coscienza, mentre il mondo fuori lo guarda con le sue traiettorie macchiate di azzurro liquido e rosso elettrico. Non ha nemmeno la certainty to exist or, of course, no longer has confidence in its authenticity. He believed, yes, they have experienced and overcome the separation of ideology, but found himself so helpless in the face of fear. Nothing but another voice, Inneres Auge as far as trying to hide it in the repeated use of foreign phrases, nothing but another voice in the polyphony and uncertainty in the world. And while Khalid is ready to stand up, Francis has just fallen asleep. Of course tomorrow is still wondering what he will do to fill his life and yet I do not feel stupid these certainty of his intentions just do not have it. Inneres vogue, he at least her eyelids closed, but you alter and remains blocked the perception of reality. Without truth and falsehood, the wound on the body of the absolutist pretensions, Inneres auge die of an eternal life without ceasing. The future goes further and quickly being consumed.
Gregory Sorgon
E' così fragile il bene, come un terreno lentamente lambito da un mare, che dentro penetra di vene d'acqua salata e lentamente corrode. L'usura del tempo cancella i colori e avvicina la visione del mondo a una Cold soft indistinct portraits.
<< "Ciao Khalid", dentro la sua piccola Karachi a misura d'uomo, le macchine frenano all'improvviso tracciando a terra l'impressione di gomme bruciate, odori di kabab e spezie misti a una nebbia che sa di bruciato, strane firme si leggono sui muri che non riesco più a leggere con la coscienza del mio tempo giovane. "Ciao maestro", odio questo saluto ma quella gentilezza fanciullesca e antica al tempo stesso annulla le mie consolidate idiosincrasie. E non amo nemmeno questo odore intenso, acre di fordismo alimentare, nè sopporto le barbe e i cappelli dei religiosi o il canto strozzato in gola e ossessivamente ripetuto delle preghiere notturne. "Datemi le vostre numerose masse" recita la Statua della libertà, proiettando le sue viscere d'acciaio verso un oceano crudele, "e le libereremo dalla libertà falsa" risponde Karl Marx dall'altro lato. E si avvicinano, Marx con la sua ampia fronte e i capelli imbiancati; la Statua della libertà con il suo sguardo cieco, come due amanti accomunati dal fato di Tiresia. "Datemi le vostre numerose masse" e col pegno delle vite degli altri non faremo altro che restituire imprevedibilità a una storia che non conosce profeti >>.
Master now lived many years and yet is young, his body was cheered on other bodies, know the baseness of deceit and disillusionment by the greater desires, and what still believe in some of its old ghosts, continues to wrong. But there is perhaps greater danger of a life without passion? I challenge you to blame this selfish altruism, lost in the jungle of lights and fog of a Rome that is dying, because if you are not Nietzsche, if you are not experienced until the end result of the absolute word on things in their lives, you have no right to judge. Cowards only have the right to silence. Perhaps Frank is aware of this and without knowing whether or not today is cowardly silent for safety. On street corners, closes his eyes lowered to the ground and walks with a perfection worthy of divine grace, stroking just the street lamps. Their light is diffused in a cold November away, away the smell of the great cemetery of the city center. "Teacher" thinks Francis, with his broad shoulders and a black coat as a frame to her self-mocking smile and his insomnia grown since the early years of university study.
Khalid instead turn the corner and go home. In the night not yet know the fear and beauty, it reminds him he hates the way he sees the day in the morning, before starting to work. At six is \u200b\u200balready a market where low fruit boxes until one o'clock in the afternoon, with the moisture that gets into the bones and the smell of rotten stuff gone bad. At four and a half wakes up, makes a quick shower, take a coffee and cram it into a night full of hands that build the houses that our parents give us abundant filling them with goods that only the misery of the rich can be. These clubs make a terrible stink, you feel the sweat on him even before he had worked and Khalid, who has a sense of the reasonableness of certain things, you know that this is bad. For this evening back soon sleep and when it comes to Italian class has two hearts, one telling him to remain and the other who knows the trouble in the eyes of the morning without sleep and no shower.
around the corner of Francis there is nothing but an endless boredom and the need to accumulate experience in order to arrive later at night with the impression of having done something for which you feel deserves to stay. And when people do not sleep, drink, and then slipped inside the covers made in bulk. Try a warm feeling in quell'accoppiarsi and wool duvets, as a textile collage on his skin. When Khalid teaches new words and moves, with some practice, including different languages, try a strange satisfaction. There is some utility to feel useful and not notice the next day, when pulled down, as would happen otherwise, even the mattress because this time it has continued to tossing and turning without ever finding peace of exhaustion.
's so strange that almost Khalid's happiness is to believe that everything is a fiction, even her look innocent and virtuous, nothing but the semblance of a thought yet not too refined in the game of recrimination. It would certainly be happy to think of reactionary stuff he has, because what he is little. Why is exploited because they did not like brushing properly or has a place to sleep that is not a room shared with four other people. "Give me your number masses" and we teach them not to be satisfied. But until when? What is the limit beyond which it becomes egolatria dissatisfaction? Francis has exceeded that limit for some time and now tries vainly to get back to a condition of respectability now lost. and meet, without having anything to do in their transaction of the good feeling that the end is an obligation for each other and return the unearned. They intersect in the vain hope to be like, resemble a little bit more. But no matter how they try, as far as trying to get the fringe in the mirror on the same side, are as distant as the sun and the night. And teach one another words to communicate or not to continue, perhaps even worse to find sempre più intimo a un mondo a cui non appartiene. Uno insegnerà all'altro le parole per comprendere il proprio suicidio o l'esigenza di andare via, quando ciò sarà possibile.
Il cosmopolitismo, vano inganno per massoni impenitenti che dà vita a pessime poesie cacofoniche e all'irragionevole speranza di chi vorrebbe ancora trovare nell'assenza di limiti e confini un senso nuovo. E così pensa un occhio interiore, che porta ai tempi andati un critico rispetto, ma non ama loro così come non ha fiducia nel futuro.
Un semplice occhio interiore, timido sull'uscio della nostra coscienza, mentre il mondo fuori lo guarda con le sue traiettorie macchiate di azzurro liquido e rosso elettrico. Non ha nemmeno la certainty to exist or, of course, no longer has confidence in its authenticity. He believed, yes, they have experienced and overcome the separation of ideology, but found himself so helpless in the face of fear. Nothing but another voice, Inneres Auge as far as trying to hide it in the repeated use of foreign phrases, nothing but another voice in the polyphony and uncertainty in the world. And while Khalid is ready to stand up, Francis has just fallen asleep. Of course tomorrow is still wondering what he will do to fill his life and yet I do not feel stupid these certainty of his intentions just do not have it. Inneres vogue, he at least her eyelids closed, but you alter and remains blocked the perception of reality. Without truth and falsehood, the wound on the body of the absolutist pretensions, Inneres auge die of an eternal life without ceasing. The future goes further and quickly being consumed.
Gregory Sorgon
