Last night I fell asleep without watching television. After a bit 'of night, I forced myself to escape. But I did not sleep soon anyway. I read a book. In fact, I finished reading a book. It was on my bedside table for a couple of months. Along with three others. All started. Four books together I had never started. There is a book Enzo Biagi, found in the library. Old and never read by anyone, a tribute book. Tales from the journalist, the living of the people who really lived, starting from the small village. Strokes of paint to portray reality more and more important, to hold the brush a great talent and great humility. But the comparison is ditching, better take one step at a time. Then there's the novel of the Nobel Prize this year. Not because he won the Nobel Prize, or at least not alone. For I, the land of green plums, there are bound little mica. There are many friends, and also something more. There was born the author of the best book I ever read. I spent many beautiful moments, I met many beautiful people, and also something more. Then there was Fahrenheit 451, what I finished last night. Because I remembered the title of a film by Truffaut, I have not seen. However, Truffaut had seen another film, called "The years in his pocket." I still remember the original title, L'argent de poche, I found it more just, then, when in the middle of the oblong laboratory nonsocosa stared at the television set resting on a metal trolley. Of that Truffaut then I have not seen anything, scared that someone positive opinion of boring had its cinema. But when I saw the title, a library, not my back grenade fire on the cover, then I opened it. And the opening words, there's nothing to say, is just beautiful. Getting to the last page has not been easy, but now that I've done has released a bookmark. So I went over a page of Kolyma Tales of Shalamov. Saviano has spoken, and I thought it could be interesting. It is. E 'was also the case for the book by Saviano, they were all talking and I thought it might be interesting. It was, but I can not say whether more or less. And I go on like this.
It seems that we go forward. You write the pages of the thesis. But we also do many things that you did a year ago. Buy a bag of sweets round, white and dusty mint. Watching movies and games on a computer. Waking up late on Sunday, take a shower, go out and get back to playing the guitar. Eat, always on Sunday, a warm baguette. And many other things. Then if you go even further, it is to get lost. Like tonight, I saw Billy Elliot on TV while doing other things, like dozens of times where I do the classmate the night before interrogations.
And there are things that are not quite the same. Like the Sunday afternoon, which is always sleepy and full of sadness, but not with the feeling of the imminent end of something beautiful. Or the fact that the actions do not cause the results you wait. Why go out, and it was cold. Pedaling and sweating, and took cold. Then I was always in T-shirt under his jacket inside because the heat was unbelievable. So even the changes in temperature not me them off anyone. And eat irregularly, and badly. Exit barefoot to get a beer in the planter used as ice. Open four windows to change the air. Going to play football in November and then take two kilometers in sweaty bike. All this and nothing happens. Then I get home, car to go anywhere, pajamas and slippers, noon and evening meals, heated by the bed, and I'll get a cold. Fuck.
In the end, however, it goes on. 
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