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The Swan of Utrecht

"i'n not afraid of HIM, I'm afraid of HIM in me"

(GG)

Many people ask where I draw this provision to pour in practices that exceed my efforts. Despite the exaggerated tricks, age does not forgive me and every breath of wind stirs the walls. The naked soul creaks and I always need the heat of alcoves that I lost count of the onlookers. Do not comfort me to know that squalor is never acts but in my eyes, I know the director of my neglect and I am not opposed to any break-up.

In many if you ask, brandishing the weapon of restraint. Not that I believe much of this history of retention: retention is the mask that I use to tell me presentable, it should be my weapon of defense, the veil drawn over the abyss in which I regret. Who accuses me but it does not compromise, because the purity is by nature incorruptible: just have little to assume infinite.

Yet it was the purity of the engine of my martyrdom. I was not suited to meet the perfection it busy for a few years, put me in front of all my absence. When he ran away, there remained no other way that the swoon.

I have seen perfection move one step away from earth with the grace of a heron, remain suspended in midair, dancing as a pure spirit. It is true, there have been other great players, but of flesh, like Batistuta. He was a constant turnaround of thought, able to lie down in flames ethereal and destructive. It is no coincidence that it was the gem of a team that tried to change theorem in the game, bend the meaning of a scientific lexicon, mechanical, unfeeling.

That day I was drunk with victory, but the metal was won on the colors, order over chaos. There was someone on the radio tifava the weakness of a dissolute genius. And as he wept to hear that barbarian on the sun of Naples that was lying cloud algebraic dreams blameless.

Then as now, was the interpreter of the story that rewards the most crudely majoritarian mechanisms, even in the game, where the inspiration would be favorable to all, according to the whims of fate. Instead they read the sports papers? In the regret of commentators appalled when one of the most successful teams cheer does not turn the right way, there is all the monotony of the enclosed power. The right and duty of winning are the same thing: I think this is the measure of our failure.

He moved with natural elegance, I touch that I raised an empire founded on the view I had not the courage touching it. I was afraid it would break, as happened then to its knees crystal. The succession of victories was not enough to fill its abandonment: Now you see me here, in the dictatorship of transparency, an autumn which extends deaf clamor, surrounded by debris, power turns against me.

private management of modesty, I fought with weapons which began the ruin of me, with what he does say all'androide of the alien "I admire him in his purity, unspoiled by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality. " The following year, the offside trap snaps, and the profligate genius took his revenge.

here has not yet come to redeem Ripley.