Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Floor Plan For A Flat

The fear is 150.

I seem to live in a dream. One of those
inconclusive, unnecessary, repetitive, you always fall back on themselves carry this burden of fear and anxiety that cyclically return at night.
This evening I hung the flag on the balcony in honor of this nation that I am disgusted, but I can not help but love. They are prey to a fatal Stockholm syndrome, where it's hard to repudiate this executioner of dignity and destruction which congeals in the boot.
This evening I hung the flag for Italy to celebrate a united, single, true, true, an 'a priori to love Italy, a' Italy that belongs to us and to which we belong, an 'that Italy is rooted in the blood and stomach despite abysmal at times the distance between Italy and Italians, between north and south, between citizens and immigrants, including public and private interests. Distances abysmal in which you lose the sense of belonging to a single voice can create beautiful words.
I hung the flag in the face of those who deny Italy. I hung to mark a clear distinction between who is worthy to live in this country and those who mocked, distancing, self-confinement in a Celtic elite, not even deserve to polish this stupid, criminal, but fucking beautiful boots.

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