the year of the cat
I'm stuck in the station in Viareggio. And yes, when you're stuck at the station, the mind begins to have no more thoughts "fresh", but all relate to one crucial question: "Why the hell we pay for a service of shit?" ;, harassing, annex.
But then I see that my train, intercity train direct to Turin, party from Salerno and hour and ten minutes late: anyone have the few poor bastards who make the whole trip from end to end, they deserve a little of my esteem. stations operated by dogs and exchanges dysfunctional no.
Everything here is giving me signs of dying down my back hurts, my pc marks remaining battery only for another two hours and forty minutes and I ardently hope to train more or less new, than those without compartments and with the sockets for those in career managers who need to view their PowerPoint presentations during the trip - just because you do not forget.
hour and ten minutes late, which is likely to increase, not counting to get a connection that the travel agent has masterminded a plot that involved my stay in Viareggio for an hour.
Sooner or later I hope to get there, otherwise I leave this post as a testament virtual memory that humanity sucks and that the pages of comics that I bought are never enough.
And fuck, I could bring something to read even more, that was not the Manual of Greek History, which right now has on me same attraction that could have a movie of Sylvester Steak Horse Mount (Sylv.Stallion goes there).
The waiting room is overflowing with suitcases behind which lurk travelers exhausted wet and somewhat resigned, looking on the monitor with a grimace that would be fun to bring to word for word in words - but I'll leave it to the imagination of the reader, but all this is taking a good thing or not, I will are drying shoes and jackets.
seems that in these places has not rained for years: the threat of river flooding, the newspapers titrated emergency evacuations and I think my calendar is actually two years back.
tragically I'm slipping into brainstorming.
And the i-Pod is leaving me, and if I leave even Cat Stevens, I just have to hate humanity passionately and having to put up with all the worst speeches of old ladies or the usual southern Marple.
Note that continued to raise his head to look at the damn monitor that continues to mark quell'1 .10. I will be a stiff neck for those who do not even allow it to rotate the pupils.
No ok, there was a change: 1 hour and 15 minutes late.
Holy shit.
I could spend time in this way, say, useful and maybe make a post in which I'm not complaining only of the trains, the fair, the world, this universe and the hamster, in the heat my skull, is chewing all the little gray matter I have left.
Actually I wanted to and I repeat, wanted to write something of some value, but also asking myself what is it that attracts me to a blog, I can not reproduce the formula beautifully.
Maybe I just have to work harder.
As I always do.
I like the term bind, shows some effort by one of the two sides, which can be considered positive for the sole reason "to exist", despite not having the desired results then led to: But sometimes, I I feel that all this effort is unnecessary and that the result be long to be seen. They are a small, damn pessimistic now is curled up on a chair aluminum, smashing up things too big for her.
continue to get all of my trains as possible and still nothing, in all senses, moreover, I feel like I'm standing on the platform of a station , looking endlessly, seeing nothing but fog.
Heavy, thick, dense, inscrutable.
fog, which conceals the train and the tracks that will not let me see a few inches from my nose and I can not decide which way to move or go on that train, but in my case, all the trains are late and I have a ticket for limited mileage.
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