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150 and not hear


Being Italian has never been a value, an honor or a disgrace. I have brown eyes like her hair (yes, they are definitely solid), I eat, sleep, breath, and I am Italian, that's all. I'm not Italian
sporadically when we win the World Cup, no less so when I see the prime minister does baucettete to Merkel. Simply I was born in a country that I love, full of underground cities, but without a vocation, a country that is the sum of a thousand neighborhoods, a country that knows if you go to the North of Germany and South Africa knows, a country where you can do anything and never get bored. A young country still, despite its 150 years, which has not yet learned to make the nation.
Being Italian, who hit in the ass.

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raining, even crying


After the great misfortunes it rains a lot, as if the world was crying his victims. I look at this unbroken curtain of water, and I think Japan. I avoided as much as possible pictures and videos after the plane breaks through the Twin Towers and the bodies that fall on deaf ears have settled in my imagination like the smile of my mother. A coward, yes, but also for respect. If I wander among the ruins of my house and destroyed my life I would not want to become the subject of a photo, even if he won the Pulitzer. Then I came across this , which seemed the most poignant and devastating human testimonies. And strength and desperation of men in the eyes of a dog.

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Pearls Before Swine


is the dominant feeling of the day. I put all the care, diligence, commitment, Calvinism and the grace that I have, and the result is for users having ringed jewelry fever.
But as I explained Giancarlo Livraghi, great student of the destructive power of stupidity, "if I speak and you do not understand the idiot I am." Urge therefore being advanced grunt. I enrolled immediately.