and I am reminded of that night on the beach ...
even then it was s. lorenzo ... shooting stars ... the summer ... some lies too ... and my desire to tell the truth, my desire to please despite some mistakes too committed, the ability to repeat the mistakes and to forgive volerseli.
that night did not work.
I raccontanto of an old story. Once again, the second time. and for the second time, I'm sorry, but I had not been able to avoid it. and for the second time I felt bad because it could be sorry, but I was not disappointed me.
and then everything crashes.
everything except the stars.
and I have found to spend a night sleepless. and you found me, the next day. and I had nothing to say except that I was sorry that I had not really measured the flow of events ...
but I knew it, and you knew it too. I would continue to live as I lived. and you too.
knew too, that I then I would have joked about. did you know that either I'd said I was sorry and that was the best thing I did in my life.
that neither was suspected of being here, even a bit 'here and a little' there, some years later.
and I never thought, some years later, the star of the evening to write. I hoped that I'd forgotten. but no.
that night can never be erased. and tries to remember how much we try. and tries to remember what I wanted, how much romance to paint all around me, who want to hang on shooting stars had yet.
and the shooting stars fall again ... but lightened by the weight of dreams too bulky, even for them.
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