The Photography Sunday's game with his eyes fixed on quell'inerme wrapped in the arms of a woman who was his, considering the extent to which the survival of the destruction he had won in quell'involto at that moment, it would have done so in the future until, in what way and how many losses, such compromises. He left open the eyes that the sea swallowed the sky in every direction and nothing else, he realized then breathe a clean scent that reminded already infinite silence of absence lives in close to him, countless times when it would not be impressed, remember that it did not take part if it is not the same as a souvenir. The long stretch waiting for him, he should deal with their own hands and that one picture of everything that had just left behind, to melt in parallel with its flowing water. Without benchmarks, the immensity of his prison holding him, and turning could only see other ripples in the sight of golden sun, with the haze that painted the rest. So the months passed, were slow, silent, sprinkled generously to the expanse and then looks at that photograph, now crumpled and its edges to its center still intact that attracted him, he felt sadness braking quell'insano solitary journey.
When dropped into the sea tried not to look more to avoid the risk of being dive into the sea to steal the salvation that was now his, his for ever. Those shoulders and concentrated as never managed to do until then. Hundreds of miles turned to his own street dancing that picture caressing sunlight that seemed to want to indicate the route, while the arms work with renewed strength, with a sadness that was first accompanied by the sound of gentle and pure water, then dominated, beaten and humiliated, annihilated: the noise went everywhere, most of the sun, most of the perfume with which, allied, occupied the place of the senses, memories that became the sea, which became invisible meters, equal to the next. Months passed new, hands yellowed beard that stretched as long as he pretended to stand still to be modeled. He observed that heaven bound, felt his other boat hit the waves as they themselves are sensitive to each other, being part of that everything seems perfect, a minimal set of movements that create harmony, and melodies, then everything can be a world. No longer felt a clean scent and salty that it was not his own, he felt that noise was not caused by him and that all that were now the same thing. He began to wonder about which beach would have ended because, if that disappear when lying on a bed to collapse and disappear dried by the wind, if this would be managed properly. He found his one and only beach, a beach on which to end, on which a close, to lean on and then watch the rest of the world look like he had done.
He saw the ground, it was summer. No beaches. Nights per cent remained in the harbor on his boat, crying. He saw pass a piece of paper under her caressing, dancing on the water, leaning managed to get it. A photograph: a young child, a woman. Lives of others, lives of those who build families. She threw it back into the sea.
When he decided to get off the boat for days the tears were over, he walked with difficulty, without turning around, with his back to itself, in that sea. I would see only twenty years later, his boat now disappeared from the harbor and memories. It would have looked surprised, a stretch fresh and fascinating: a new perfume, clean, noise docile and gentle. Lives of others, lives of those who dare the waves. It would be shot again, without remembering that they have done in the past, without even noting that piece of paper that is still waiting for him at the foot of the port, the same where twenty years earlier had been thrown, to return to the beach on which was to end.
