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countries Vesuviani

impressive image of Jesus Christ rises suddenly on top of a pile of sheets. The car is forced to slow to a stop in front of one of the many open mouths asphalt. His eyes linger on the icon required, crayon, the expression of compassion and heart surrounded by a crown of thorns. Octavian on rubbish sprout fields of agriculture severe colorless. Vesuvius is an expanse of green salt, too often interrupted by colorful gems mixed concrete. A Terzigno never meet two buildings the same, while the fixtures show altered colors and faded from bronze to dull red. St. Joseph Vesuvius Boscotrecase, Octavian, the explosion of Pompeii are swollen and gaping belly of Naples. The back of the hand is a hard surface veins swollen, calloused a patina, while the palm is closed into a fist nor too tight. The focus is sharp and round, usually accompanied by a muted smile, like someone who hides a few teeth in his mouth. I have all bar at the bottom of a locked room. People here know that a word is already too much. In these countries there is no center and the roads have all of them the same name. The land of Raffaele Cutolo was sold recently to the Chinese, who arrived with suitcases full of money and work that does not cost anything. Now the children of magliari cry because someone else controls at home. St. Joseph Vesuvius is a long straight road that never ends. All the same. A chain of jeans fabrics and poor in an orderly, aligned and affiliates. The shapes of the dummies are the souls of the false and counterfeit, and yet, in these parts white and shaped these bodies are still resisting and grotesque life that never dies.

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The peaks are in front of the Matese, cunning and supine, the sick in their upright, wrapped in white silk robes hoarse, soft and linda, forced into the clothes they usually wear bright only in the harsh winter months. Ruviano and Alvington, Dragons and Bay and Latin America, and Roccaromana Pietramelara finally Riardo are a handful of countries bordering with clemency from the rock. N seem fled quickly from the flood, processed, repaired and gently cling to the rind, suspended or lost as a protuberance of the cliff extreme introvert scorbutic evanescence of the earth.

I am surprised at the images of all time, always equal to themselves and yet so renewed, filtered through a different light. They are the only ones able to give me back that that fever and thirst, that a baby crying intruder who can not keep, they are no longer able to draw from other places: the plaster crumbling corroded by moss, the luminaries decrepit wrought iron a woman who barely holds a shawl on his shoulders lean, which launches in the windy cold to take some strain of shrub in the store, the fresh wood and disorderly front of the houses, the walls in pure virgin tuff that surround each door, the smell of soot ash. Some bars have already closed, and everywhere the smell of cold gray and covered with a pungent smell of rust and shut curtains. They walk with his head down, his chest swollen she can not spit out a sigh, the gasp that escapes and goes, an embarrassment that emerges intimate, touching and flowers in her eyes that hide a serious failure, a loss never deleted, the mourning imprinted on the face and dug dry, going back through the edges of the bones of the face. Respect for the memory etched in silence and slow nell'andatura. We were told that things around here are worth little, or at most just a few coins. And 'only remnant of the day that is gone.