's official: these are months that I can not finish a book that is one. I have three initiatives on the table and at least ten on the shelf of books to read. Books, flowers and dogs are my passion that I can remember, even after the chocolate has arrived. I loved the smell of the books before you even know how to read, I watched my parents and absorbed through the pages as custodians of an esoteric knowledge (something that happens to me today when I read in Cyrillic). Optimistic by nature, I wonder about this unexplained abstention early Alzheimer's, implosion or intellectual laziness?
Then I realize that they are so absorbed by my own, stories, and those around me, the stories the paper aside.
But I dream at night, when they finish those books that leave you orphaned, exhausted and changed. And I hope you come again in my life Useppe, and Ariane and Solal, and travelers to Bowles, and the lost souls of Mason, and Adso of Melk, and perfumes Suskind, clown and full of opinions, and Buddenbrooks, and Narcissus and Goldmund and Donna Prassede and all those that do not remember the name that kept me company during the day and awake at night.
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