Nipple Piercing Mastitis

The car ate my grandfather

The car is a dry island in a world of wet. Some days it rains, and despite the muddy pants are still happy. It 'annoying but it is good. I'm sitting in the car for a couple of hours, all close in saffron coat, his head stuffed into a scarf. Around me the parking lot of AGIP, vans incoming and outgoing workers looking walking shoes, sides wicked cold. A few steps to get to the refreshment bar, upholstered in yellow prints from the successes Ferrari. There are already entered for a coffee, but I did not feel at ease and I preferred to return to your car. I have to wait for Richard to finish the job interview, a first selection organized by the agency in a tower block outside Modena. Behind the windows streaked with rain, in addition to the huge building, there is only a Hungarian truck is maneuvering, the refreshment bar gray, dirty yellow, el'imbocco highway. Sometimes the crunch of water on the windshield becomes more intense, overwhelming. Around me. The car has become my craft, I think it's impossible to get out. It turned into a submarine, a probe is inserted in the mood of the world, to be able to spy on maintaining a waterproof remote. Towards the highway traffic is recurrent in endless ripples. The sound of the rain seems more real, but sometimes disappears beneath the roar of the rusty truck. The big sky is white, reminiscent of those walls left to get dirty and never grow old without a coat of white.
Near the tower block there are trees around shake some leaves still hanging from the branches. I watch them through the warped glass of water, where drops seem to sink into a kind of surface-puddle, as soft plastic, and profiles of the leaves are even more wide open. Other trees are completely bare. They are beautiful, blacks and lean, impassive. Without leaves seem far less agitated. I think I'd like to lose their leaves: understanding the wind that rips off one by one, to observe them from rotting in the gutters. And then sit silent and strong to spend the winter without having to worry about survival. It would be comforting. The bare trees like so many ascetics conscientious, finally freed from the needs and passions, monuments ataraxia silent and modest. It must be a relief to let it whip on the ground the last leaf. While I think
these things, the cockpit has run cold. I open the book and increasingly immobile keep reading Proust.