Sunday, August 29, 2010

Porcelain With I Mark



Warhead, 34. Unemployed student at Bologna, but of Sicilian origin. Its scope is just the capital of Emilia.
Today, the day the curse of the divine head, I called Warhead by myself, I find myself in Verdi Square, right in the little bar, which is called Piccolo. I sit and drink coffee. I read a newspaper Communist and I relax by reading the editorial,

waiting for yet another surge in criticism of the journalist's turn. I have just received and put it on your MP3 player. Listening to "Co.dex" by Giovanni Lindo Ferretti and go down with my flow of thought ... I hate my Warum can your band because I lost my mind ... I left the event not deaf ... I find myself in social position due to me, that is that of the dissent. Barbaro, legitimate bastard of a nation from being tainted national-popular, I choose to violate the image of my schoolboy, who would shoot if the prosaic with a kaleidoscope of citations.
finished listening to the cd above I decide to go to another little bar in Largo Respighi. I have just the 13. Inside the little place I see a group of girls and boys drink a healthy camomile, strange for the time. I opto otherwise for a beer, apathy noted background. Once again I put in my MP3 function, choosing "Are You Afraid of the Dark?" Afterhours. Music that takes me like I'm drinking beer and on with my mental maelstrom ... My sweet virgin, on tiptoe I kissed you, giving me the chloroform the yield of the bourgeoisie ruling ... between serum knights I can not see what the difference between good thing. Scatarro and found that the failure is still a lap. What a joy! V'insulto cute kids! Manuel talented, I finished the final erection of surprise, when they swear your . Singing, cursing the place where they are.

E 'spend an hour in a good and constant coming and going without sleep for Via Zamboni, like a wandering tourist, who can not ask for anything in life. I choose to buy a ten marijuana and I headed to the Irish Pub, a bit 'higher up than the Piazza Verdi. I walked out of his pocket a map, mixing the tobacco with the weed. I'm beginning to smoke a pipe and back with my anger ever, that is to operate the player. This time I want flooding your foreign music and "Rated R" of Queens of the Stone Age is in my ears. I continued to smoke and I take a moment ... Lexotan of my days, I would live in the best condition with a little 'glue to sniff, run my autopilot, the sky falling on me while I live in my narcosis. Sailing in imaginary routes, seeing the mental onanism pleasure, when it canceled all sense of pleasure, probably post-generational effect of stasis. Slow guitars and a bass that stuns in its rhythmic punk ... plano a paranoid, unstable gait ... dictated by my fall.
And I go down in alcohol until 20. Pubs are now within dell'Irish and jazz music: our chose John Coltrane to delight customers. I have it good, but to a certain point. Mp3 and still choose to go "XTRMNTR" Primal Scream ... I enter the lager in thick head like alcohol 100% pure ... I'll kill you hippie, just when I acknowledge my mental syphilis, in the second where I could swallow a drug and fuck british orthodoxy individual ... now your eyes ... fucking swastika harping fuss to a girl, revealing a stream no sense to me very sick ... she responds with a barely concealed smile, looking at me and kiss her in a morbid moment ... no pleasantries and escape from the pub hand in hand to go home.
Joints in my humble abode, I open the fridge and take two beers from 66 Cl. I choose a CD and here it is: "Down" the Jesus Lizard. Song after song, we try to dance to this music ... My new lover is thrown into a hysterical dance ... I try to emulate the singer, meowing like a dog ... and my flow of thoughts ... take my hand, after having slinguato with me into a vortex of passion ... I feel my macho rigor while I unfasten the belt to drop his pants ... she seeks me down, violating the code of this magnificent power ... we relax in bed ... and follow the rhythm of Jesus ... and now ... make me strong when I have inside, seeing grassland forms of pleasure in your god ... my death!
The CD ends like this little story that we want an end for its convention. For posterity
hackers turn, the Antide, and the dead in all those categories that, dear reader, dear reader-or do not want to belong.




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