Stasera sono preda del nomadismo delle idee. Fa caldo, fa tremendamente caldo. Il mio corpo affonda nel materasso e sembra ancora più pesante. Le immagini si affastellano nella mia mente l’una sull’altra, si ammucchiano, per poi spezzarsi, polverizzarsi. Non ho controllo alcuno sui miei pensieri, sono vittima di una battaglia sfiancante ed ho caldo, sono coperta di sudore. Ho bisogno di una doccia, to get rid of this feeling of suffocation wet. I need something to focus my energies and attention to the body can only get away from the tyranny of the mind. I have to get my weight of flesh and blood, listen more carefully. Maybe I'm really just using it as a suit when I'm in and that is not mine. I must return to the body, to save me. Within the bathroom and turn on the light. I take off your clothes and let him slip away, piled on the floor. As the water flows into the shower and gets warm, I look. I look at my face, my hands that pass through his hair disheveled, my skin finally amber after a while 'at sea. A face is superimposed on my own, automatically, almost instantaneous (and instinctive). It seems that I have forgotten the roar of water coming down and waiting for me to drink and fly, as always, live in space and inhabited by a now distant yesterday. It was nice when we went in the evening. She was beautiful in that half-hour swim in the summer evenings, waiting to exit. It was nice to spend the cream on his back, touching your skin with your fingers and soul with words. Santa always wondered how two women could extend so much time, expanding the minutes and making her unbearable wait. It was good to wear makeup to enhance our beauty, it was nice to choose the most mere ornament to our faces and see, projected in front of the mirror, how the passage of time would make our features more similar. It was nice to discover an ever more marked correspondence in the features of the faces, in the case of bodies, in the form of smiles. Not only within you gave me, you so prosperous and mother, I so thin and masculine forms of the feminine. When I was a teenager and I lived my thinness as an impairment in the carousel of vanity natural at that age, I took my tiny breasts in his hands and dreamed that took shape, growing on contact and taking your profile. You calm the girl of my insecurity, saying that would have grown, flourished in the features that I would soon be an adult, I would have taken maternal and sensual look. And to think that instead of seeing my grow, I saw your dry by the day, losing their prosperity and call me in the warmth of hugs, a sentence that you are condemned killer. Who knows what you feel when, for the first time, I have attached to your nipples and I pulled hard. Who knows what you feel when you've received, when they are sunk in the softness of your breasts, while I clung to you like a frightened puppy. I wonder if you hear me when I returned, reversing a generation, the maternal gestures with his hands and kisses her daughter. I wonder if I reciprocated embrace the love of these years. I look again, reflected in mirror, and I see you emerge from the wrinkles on my face. It 'good that threw me under the shower, and cool my body and my thoughts.
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