A tattered old book, yellowed by streams, apathy and a woman also sitting at the cash counter of his dirty and forgotten. She has no words for anyone and spits of tobacco smoke and poor smelly sock and then a thick makeup and fake. It's okay if you do not cross with the look that the miasma blown. The suffocating constrictions of the tuff and dust are two hands that encircle the neck of Naples, gathered in a tight embrace, but at the same time it holds, while in the ravines and washed with anemia, swollen and engulfed in filth and misery of faces too small to be already so old, it rains once ensnared and property. Dilapidated, obsessive, greedy, cynical, broken, dark, decrepit, thanks, no doubt complicated. Herculaneum is a place of exile and plays music that is heard elsewhere, and his notes are a part of who claims what is going to happen even before the brood is just as gone. Between the folds of the face is the flap that hides the pain and confused, the hurt of death that caresses every facial expression and submerge the smile that never blooms but never completely. In the alleys surrounding the sea and never catch it, between the chairs arranged in bulk, it sounds the roar of a sly slap, followed by a cry which is a colorless dirge faint, whistled a chant, a voice like a dumb song. Corrupt, greasy and torn, twisted, and full of defeat, dark, ancient, intimate and hysterical. Scratched.
blossomed, Herculaneum has never blossomed!
