The fog in the morning.
the morning of August a gray, silly, nervous.
I feel great confusion and sometimes twinges of pain. In my brain.
are not poems, not melancholy. I'm just mist, surrounding my life today and the desire for a bit 'light.
The fog, at least one of the photograph in the morning gives way to a sun that illuminates without heating.
I do not see even a glimmer of light, nothing but heat.
That dark, dark.
One of the villages that I know stone to stone.
real Middle Ages, it breathes and restructuring.
A unique and beautiful country, in which childhood memories are crossed too many tears and too many fears for the child who was walking in the castle courtyard.
Each lane inside of old Gallipoli, which cuts into the sea, offers the sighs of the sea and away colors that are good for the eyes.
's one of those towns where you can still breathe magic.
I could not resist ... before my mother could rinse off with a cloth before the rain if he might take away, before a swarm of ants tattered and greedy if they could use like a truck ...
I could not resist, I photographed.
