from Porta Susa to my house. We are seven and eight. The tram 10 is a yellow bile, annoying. A riot of r's limp attempts a right to my phone, of course failed. But you know was passing by, even if he falls there ciccio the spawning season, and then if you have seen at least once can not help but hate you already. After a day on trains and subway, my heart beats and my mind napalm designs monstrous genocides and unmotivated. Take public transport infrequently. Too little maybe. It would be nice to exploit the potential of these philanthropic tubes stuffed with meat. Instead I find myself with that ugly face, who lives in a cage with wheel and pedals for days and years, ready to shoot at all intersections, with loud music and phone calls river. With this whole city out, my short time, the complete mouse-gray, well, see me in the mirror I see myself at the gates meatball expired. Mistake
stop.
In the five minute song and asphalt toward home, I try the keys, humming, I enjoy an early autumn chill.
And I've already forgotten how useless drone produces human contact. My connection is a liar, opening the door I say it promise.
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