Lisbon. A city that an association of ideas leads me to a situation that hurts. And I am sorry because if you ever go there, I know that I will be inevitably affected.
Sometimes cities are like people. They carry signs of wearing something that is past and see a city with these signs can be a unique experience. How people are affected because the states of mind that when you visit them for the first time, or even the second and third, and just when you think, like the 1000 times I thought my NY. In fact, for me she is a melting pot of different moods, is a volcano, an atomic bomb. They are like the clothes because the smell became immersed in feelings and emotions change with the light and the seasons, they seem very old or advanced according to the day when you put them. They are like dreams because you can turn the long and wide and ask the meaning of your trip. And especially since you can rebuild on their heads and turn them over simply by closing his eyes. Or maybe sleeping. I do a lot of times in my dreams I was in NY and was always different and always the same.
Anyway, back to Lisbon. For me it's a long road that goes downhill to the sea. Fishermen and smell of fried fish. Tram. 60s. Sunsets. Tavern. Children with strong ideals. Ocean in the distance that smacks of America.
But it is also a dull pain that resounds in the folds of a day like today where a number of associations made me need to remember her and I would just forget it. E 'screamed a scream of rage, where no one can hear. And 'the dagger of a fisherman who cleans the fish firmly, making splash pieces all around. And 'the fist of a man thrown against something in revenge for an old offense. It 's like a bone broken for days that it will continue to hurt. Bear the pain. See the photo above there? It's called "Tram in Lisbon." I found it while I was not looking. I like trams. Lisbon no. Recall this day of sorrow and anger because it crosses the sky with its gray one in Milan, forming a color indefinable. A color that does not exist. But I will not say anything back to the heart of the problem because after all I'm just a trace electronically. Pit piles of letters on the black surface as the remains of broken bones. I am going to explore unknown places. And I do not know if we'll ever, in Lisbon, I do not know if I'll take off that smell of fish and those that evokes delusions. In order to be free to see it for what it is. A set of streets, squares, houses, shops ... taking an odd shape, the shape of a dream, the kind you do with a full stomach and leave you a bit 'groggy in the morning and had a glass of 'water.
time the anger is a strange time. A recurring event like the seasons, embroiled in the size of the circular time of Homer's memory. The time comes when the anger does not expect it, like a summer storm blows away everything you need so that every time you have to rebuild almost from scratch. It makes no sense to describe with words because in the time of anger words are never there and indeed, usually sailing upwind.
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