There is no space
for



the unnamed files

unless they find other unnamed files
then they would deserve their own space of existence

the individual surrenders to the despotic neuralgia aroused by the mass

The fragile see swinging
A liana, ending among the veil of clouds
It was reminiscent of the beanstalk plant
But it retained the ruins of an abandoned castle

It's a game or a save
Soon they saw it clearly

He is a man of medium height
Which manages to be a plant but also an animal
he is his world and that of others, he is whatever the mind tells him to be

The condition of the fragile is sad,
that for lack of creativity and inspiration,
never manage to change the appearance


As well as young rampant people
who do not want to feel the weight of fragility
They jump, holding on tightly to the liana
To the commuter man

It's a ***** job to be the teller of brutal fairy tales
But somehow the man has to entertain the hearts of the fragile
Prepare them for impact, they would not always remain hanging
They would not always remain floating travelers of nowhere
And their hearts would not always have absorbed everything bad in the world

How many fragile lives he sees clinging to his stem
There are sad eyes looking at him from below
And he looks at them from above and understands
that his virtue has become a cross, a universal pain
The eyes of others have become his
And the sweetness with which he cradled and carried the weight of others
All he did was lead the fragile to love him in all the guises he wanted to choose

Upside down She looks like a cockroach
She wiggles her paws with technical grace

Needs help to turn

Back with the paws on the ground
She stops on the precipice of the balcony
Looks motionless at the trees from above

As if She already knew where to go,
Or rather as if she knew where not to stay.


Can Bedbugs Fly High?


And without thinking for a moment more
Between the grates, I watch her go away

He told me "I'm here"
I never answered him
I would have loved to do it
I would have loved to tell him that I was there too.


The next day they found him dead in a ditch.


Meanwhile
Two passers-by were talking about filled cakes
"Alla marmellata, alla crema".

Chi gira di mattina
sono i vagabondi e i marciatori mattinieri.
I vagabondi spostano le loro cose da un punto ad un altro.
I mattinieri si preparano alla giornata.
Che potessi essere sia l'uno che l'altro non lo escludo.
Marciatori di mondi vagabondi
che spostano pensieri nell'angolo
dove il giorno non li vede