are in Rome. I am alive (the witness's family status, if I had to certify this condition I would not be so definitive). They are crushed in the usual bureaucratic nonsense that make you curse an event which already struggling to reconcile. Moreover my father always went to hurry and snapped cristonatura on time. The fate cynical and cheat requires me to choose between paying a roar of money and be free and beautiful Italian to bury my past, or that I did not save money and stay here by name, prey to all the bonds and snares, as Gianni Perego and Romolo Catenacci, because I nun I go, and more Roma nun.
short, a choice to be made in all serenity.
Anyway, this post is not on my cock (although extending it to the world that has a cathartic and therapeutic), and basically not even a post.
is a question.
A question I ask continuously for five days since I came back in a city where I do not feel anything other than theft, robberies and rapes, and if it went well so 'flown only a pair of slaps on a rear end collision. A city where the helicopters fly daily minimum safe distance - Alcatraz, basically. Creepy stuff.
Fortunately, in a little 'I repass. But you, how the hell do you live there? No, seriously.
