Metro-trip
Galoppo giù per gli scalini perché è tardi, no, peggio, è tardissimo! Infilo sì e no cinque falcate per il corridoio insolitamente vuoto per quest'ora e la vedo.
Se ne sta accosto al muro impiastrato di poster. Non è appoggiata, è solo ferma vicino al muro, di tre quarti, in effetti, rispetto al muro. Vestita di scuro ordinato, con una lunga sciarpa che le penzola dal collo che spicca dal busto inclinato in avanti. E' come il freeze-frame di qualcuno che, camminando, stesse per andare a sbattere contro il muro. Sta in piedi to lay leaders fringed scarf that range in front and rattles off words. At first I think is calling. I can not find normal people who use the headset to make calls. I know it's convenient, but they seem frantic that speak for themselves. At that point out the words: "Madonna, yes, yes, Madonna. Help me, Help me Jesus, help me, Jesus" No headset. The problem is not evident. The lady is about 65, a little 'faded, but stand up by itself is not dirty, is not injured and did not appear undernourished. Whatever the difficulties in which he is, I do not think there are many chances that Jesus comes to help her. This makes me feel worse as you move rapidly towards the second flight of stairs and turnstiles. When crossing a group of people who come to the contrary, the relief gets rid of the guilt. That does not help the huge German who tries to negotiate the opening of the passage, but instead puts on the ticket. Several times.
I hasten to the escalator on which people are in bulk. If they were all right, we would put less down, and once arrived on the sidewalk, I would not see my train pull away, as it happens. Four minutes to the next train.
side towards the bottom of the pavement, where I know the last stop and we coaches will be less people. There is a chick dressed like a feast for moths color blind, it seems waterfall outside of the insert mesh and crocheted Burda, one with his head shaved, dressed as a dustman and imponderable black plastic bag in his hand , a guy with glasses so dirty that short-sighted not understand how I can read the posters of films such. In fact, not law. Lies before us, but peeking from the side. Look at the people around him with one eye and assess the distances. When someone gets too close, he moves and restores the distance that is safer to . It is not a traveler from peak hours. The air charge Ozone is persuaded to pretend to wind the train coming from the bottom of the tunnel. I turn back, so I end up all the hair in front of the face: the verse must have the right attitude, my cut by careless rebel .
All that hair on his face the discomfort I feel good hiding for the boy torn between conformity (hair short and neat) and transgression (a swarovski brillocco-Maradona-like ears), and not for his indecision-se Fracchia does seem young, but because it is padronissimo-instead of those who cling to the supports, you rest your back, occupying the whole area more comfortable and forcing the others (me!) to use the top.
The portion of the vertical support that today I share with two other hands. One of which is the classic hand- snail . White, cold, clammy. Continually slips down. He notices only to lose altitude when it encounters an obstacle, then retracts cornino like a snail.
In this case the obstacle is my hand. My hand was warm and dry, firmly anchored in the space minimum. Stubborn. And hostile. After contact, the hand-slug back a few inches, closes on support and continues to slide downward. The girl belongs to, does not seem to be really there, as if he had sent his body somewhere in the metro to give a little 'holiday for the brain. A bit 'like me, that I put on the train the body and the desire to occupy the space that falls to me, accompanied by a shining example of paranoid rage and veiled pedestrians. The need to survive the crossing of the city. I turned off the mind at the moment. Until my arrival at the appointment, at least.
Last night I had a panic attack.
In my bed, before sleeping. Equipped with everything you need for casting off and detached from reality, I had a panic attack.
looked like a heart attack, but I knew very well what it was, even though I had never happened that way.
probably what I also know that if I were the bubonic plague. I'm a control freak , I know the symptoms of anything has ever had. I like being prepared, but not degenerate Hypochondriasis. Check that too.
So while gasping for oxygen must raise between thick and the other, I started telling myself "you're having a panic attack, quiet, it's nothing, breathe, and I left with biofeedback. Meanwhile, a small part of me kept the injustice, "but only because I say so?", And relief, "I can do well alone."
The girl sitting here in front of the door wig. Real hair, but reduced bad, so why not do the chemo. The wigs are painfully new chemo, is used relatively little. Or because it heals, or because you die. But here's a wig and a more widely used as if it were a hat: gray Cernecca air offensive sprouting all around the face. It is not clear that there is history here. Instead of the two girls in front of the door, ready to go down to the next, like me, the story is clear. Both are nice, but he is not convinced. He decided that it is too low, and this most serious lack is punished with a future bunion by high heels. Meanwhile, trots like a Japanese zori on the side of her friend dall'andatura elastic and low shot. A true friend does not put his heels to go out with you if you exceed twenty inches. Or maybe not. Maybe she likes you as you are and you do not measure in centimeters, so it is looking shoes that gets to hang out with you. The two I turned left and right, although I would have preferred the opposite, just to not go where I'm going.
quickening his pace, I know that being late means to resist, and I can afford. I did not think I'd come back here after so many years. I thought I had resolved to have reassembled the pieces, be output. And 'here that taught me how to do it even alone. Maybe there's more that I learn.
