Spondylosis Disability

Droppie (IX parte)

But who would give thought to drink while pushing the bike to stand on the Tiber. You are never single by choice. He engaged the autopilot and almost without realizing it had arrived in front of the bicycle shop in the Jewish ghetto. She went and asked politely to the owner, or so it seemed to remember, if you could please give him a gonfiatina. The gentleman behind the counter who was not even answered him and waved his hand to use by only using the air-lift made freely available to customers outside the store. But the boy insisted. He wanted to take this opportunity to also change the seat that became immersed in the whole water when it rained and there was already to be too close to the brakes. The seat costs 30 €. He had to leave the bike and go to withdraw it the next day, the man muttered again without lifting his eyes from the account register. Thirty euro was more than I had paid for the bike that was stolen, yes, but it was still a Rossignoli and in perfect condition, "said the boy and asked to see the saddles.

The jew not answered. The shop was empty, he was the only customer and simply could not understand why so rude. Nothing could justify such behavior, especially by that old jew merchant who also must have experienced the hard way that same lack of respect, the same hateful indifference was now paying him. Besides the age difference the lives of that jew disillusioned and confused young homosexual that were united by the same destiny of discrimination and suffering. A common condition and a common feeling, just as he said the letter from Silvia-you said-and once again his thoughts and his friend since high school. But it was only for a brief moment. The boy did not even have time to recover from the surprise that the owner had already thrown out of the shop, railing against him and his bike shit.

Returning home on foot in the grip of a tremendous tension-head down and clenched fists on the handlebars of a bike-a sea of \u200b\u200brage ready to burst into tears, the boy felt even more confused than when he left. What was happening to him? It was like seeing them from outside, angry with the world without knowing why and without being able to control himself. On the Tiber which took him back home, knackered as the wheels of his bike, tried to analyze better. His was a life full of adventures and rich in emotions. He felt satisfied and happy with his choices, yet so strangely restless. Why? Blame his expectations ever so excessive, overwhelming, extreme? Its innate tendency to foolish daydream that stimulate certain to improve but alienated from reality? Everyday life on the other hand had always terrified. For him it was not live, but survive. He had inherited from his father a heroic vision of man and a cult of life lived intensely in the search for knowledge of self, others and the world. But life for him was always somewhere else. And his antics to the continuous Looking for something would not let him enjoy what he had. Happiness is wanting what you have, her grandmother always told him. But this story is not whether he had ever drunk. The false and it sounded so defensive. A verse from poor losers and, like "size does not matter" to those who have little. And there was nothing I hated more than the boy of mediocrity and small cocks. If taken with the horoscope, which provided a fantastic year for the Taurus. He had let themselves be overwhelmed by malicious mermaids astrological: chimeras of printed paper that never pay this pushed him to ask more and more about his future. On the old, who kept the last Smemoranda year of high school he had read a quote that said you can be young once but immature all your life. He was on the verge of thirty years but did not know what life had in Serbian for him or how long he had left. The alarm sounded on the phone. It was the hour of his pills.