words, whispers. An attempt to comfort, alongside a friend who is crying.
I try to comfort her, leaving phrases heard other trivial ... but all with a terrible doubt ... for who am I doing?
Maybe it clear .. I whisper to myself. I investigate, study, try to interfere in the lives of others and give help, because I want to see this life.
So full, so .. life. But
viewer does not take part in the game, and here I am in search of a life almost spasmodic, of the pillars of the few certainties, at least something to make me think of being in the middle of something.
No, I whisper, help, but in the meantime envy, envy of all, deep inside. I envy the relationships, habits envy, envy even the pain, all concentrated in tear. I never cried for something that happened to me. I did the opposite, for something that happened to me, a dream interrupted by the awakening, for a fleeting illusion. Once. Just one.
Amandola and hating, compatible, and envy, hug, and whisper.
And I've heard, I analyze my gloomy tone (I looked like the girl from The Ring, I will then pointed out), I almost invented, to deceive themselves: I know something of life, I have some experience .. but it is not. What can I .. say, I?
I know nothing. How can I console, how can I understand?
embrace those spasms, that trembling, the tears and his voice labored, almost desperate, broken. And the wrap, with my deep, friendly, helpful ... and hopelessly empty.
Empty, from every experience, every knowledge. I make the scene. I've always been good at it. Why I can not ... because I can not .. why do not I?
Sorry. Always talking to the first scene, reminiscent of past unhappy and emotional problems, sparking, unwittingly, even pain of others.
Here, the embrace, for I do not know what. The consul, I try to do it. But in reality I join her crying.
Together, we cry.
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