I was thinking a thousand things to write, a thousand ideas, a thousand inspirations. I just finished reading a book for incurable sentimentalist, and had even managed to sincerely believe in love for a few pages, the intensity was such as to make me lose my mind. Now, the question that arises is: am I that I'm the reason or the other? Always extremely sensitive since birth I drag behind an aura of concern to other people's business like no other. I'm actually just a "fessacchiotta" but at this point I arise two questions: how can we consider the world that we live in? As can be seen as a reality in which those who have a strong feeling ignored and left to their fate? Selfishness is the most appropriate side character you could wish for today. I am convinced that when we can afford to choose how we want our beautiful child with all his wonderful qualities and no dismal failure, selfishness will be snapped up, along with giant breasts and abdomen of marble. Obvious.
thousand ideas, a thousand inspirations .. bah maybe it's better that I go to take my train a couple of hours and stop writing pointless thoughts and exactly contrary to the word interesting. Word that deserves a little digression, as it has an ambiguous meaning and extremely overrated among others. I know people who put it everywhere, as another excuse to pretend to be intellectually superior. Well you know what? Choose your words. Select them all, with everyone around you, what makes you intellectually superior.
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