relearn to live being careful in the beating of the heart speeds up when I make sure to repeat that all is well and that nothing I have to worry about.
Account few dozen numbers, for me time to find peace.
Today I can not.
I want to give me a dial tone but, pants, veterans, with the hem stitched this morning, they run away like one who has pissed on the piss and had become waxing, chair of innovative design: pink to red circles.
rimmed port of red eyes: I cried like a baby. No, I cried like a fool.
I cried in the shower this morning, while my mother made coffee and smiles and I curse the
heart, what we speak. My heart
deaf.
"So?" I
arrivals: a kick in the teeth.
"Then," says
this time but still contains and explains nothing.
The young man sitting across the desk has a little more than two decades, charcoal gray jacket open a glimpse of a sophisticated striped shirt with small grenade on a beige background.
Today I can not.
stretches his arms to the girl standing nearby, extending his last
along the length of the body. Pork smile that fades as soon as it returns to me.
Now the story.
55 years and I'm desperate. I am a fool who suffers from anxiety and panic attacks merdosissimi. When I arrive and devastate the interior Captain: stomach, liver, pancreas, spleen, appendix and
everything, everything. Have you ever tried to die, you and your shirt washed with Marseille?
Now the story.
55 years and I'm desperate: a jerk who is suffering.
captain When I arrive and devastate. The inside.
"Well, well, well!" And uncork the phone and make sure there are no calls, or messages, or whatever the fuck
else. And then at me.
"I fifty-five ..."
Stops, with that face on the butt resting on folded hands: "I should have his medical Marina ...?
Give me the dossier of the Lord ... "and he takes upon himself back in his swivel chair. And in fact, turns and new
learn to live listening to the beat of the heart: when accelerating.
Today I can not.
"There ..." Now the story.
Instead he says, his voice flat and professional, from one line to another, sends a look at Marina
for now if you fucked or maybe not. But the story promises.
"There!" repeats.
Marco, Luigi, or John ... son, yes you could be my son.
I've worked a lifetime in the foundry. Then came the evil, madness. Listen, listen: panic, fear, depression. When my wife went away I did not have anything.
"She could be assigned to the district east ... or at least try. Although, honestly, I do not think the proper type. But a few days of testing we do not deny anyone ... of course not paid! "
Logically, Marco, Luigi, and Massimo ... son. And I'm raising
logically, you know?
I'll give you back and I'm leaving. But not because
I work sucks.
not because you think that someday pay unpaid frighten me.
Not because I do not even have understood and have made me speak.
No. Just because I wanted to try again to be considered a man without evil, madness, panic, depression. Instead, they were days never set foot outside the house and, while I ride, you see that spot behind the pants, well, my son: it is just piss.
And while I'll leave you to observe the dignity that I scrub my ass, go out to breathe oxygen because of my fear should never be out of breath.
