146.
E 'middle of the night now but I still linger in the alleys of Erice. An intricate maze of veins and capillaries surrounded by dry stone walls and churches crooked and worn. Suddenly, as often happens in this town, and set the fog shrouds everything. Continuation indolent, mesmerized by the train of thought and the trampling of my leather soles. I love to lose the osmosis of the bronchioles of cobbled streets, stairs, courtyards, bends, courtyards, cloisters, balustrades, abysmal views all the way down to Trapani, the salt marshes, meandering to the sea, islands Egadi; enjoy the black sky, deep quilted twinkling stars, the swarm of the Milky Way. But now the mist I can see only what touches. Sometimes I close my eyes and caressed by the wind and sounds of the night. The street lamps light up small patches of milky fog that envelops herself. Runs alongside a Jewish cemetery with the graves disconnected, uprooted half the tombstones. I did not think there was one in Erice. Within in the cemetery, on the delay of calligraphy Hebrew inscriptions that I can not decipher. Way beyond. I am captivated by all things that I perceive, tasting amazingly like an apparition. Without realizing it I ended up totally out of hand. Every now and then emerge from the fog figures that are swallowed again a moment later nell'impalpabilità white: a man with a drooping mustache, dressed dapper in his narrow, leaning on a cane tip with black lacquer with gold and ivory handle in the shape of skull, fog, a elderly couple, perhaps centuries old, fog, a dog with his tail between his legs, announced by the rhythmic touch of her nails on the marble, I scanned with a yelp, launching into an acceleration, fog, a woman in white silk evening (climbing helmet of blond hair) lights a cigarette from a long silver cigarette holder, fog and a child - or a dwarf? - In shorts, fog, a priest with a broad-brimmed hat and black robe, fog, a horse-drawn carriage with wheels that creak. Neighing. The sound of hoofs fades slowly. Fog. Chimes a bell from a high tower. Fog. A bat - who, like me lost orientation - almost makes me drop the hat. I am lost. Vago at a certain hour of the night to the woods of Erice. Barking of dogs chasing each other in the remote districts of the country. The crickets sing the usual concert of boos. Feel in the fog at a distance indefinable bursts of laughter, snatches of conversations, thick whisper. I can not find that a few meaningless words. It will be a happy brigade of young people the wee hours. I can not understand or where they are or how much time has passed. Maybe an hour, maybe two, but I feel - as a suspect - to walk an infinite time. I sit on a rock, breath: I follow my exhalations to be confused with the fog in smoky spirals. I realize I'm rubbing elbows with a couple, I detached from the group: they kiss passionately.
The fog makes an appearance as diaphanous.
She turns to stare. Approaching the head until you touch my face, and discerning, searches for long. Then he tells his worried lover:
"But you also have the impression that there is someone next to us?".
"But no, you say," replied the young man.
"But I could swear that he saw as the breath of a man who was swirling fog, right here beside me."
hold my breath, the young man stretches out his hands in the exact spot where I am. His arms, while girdling, through my body without touching. I remain fools.
"Can not you see that there is no fog? And who do you think there is a ghost? Come here, silly. "
and begin to kiss.
disappear in a gust of dense fog.
Me or them?
scream: "Who among us is the fantasmaaa?".
No one answers.
Fog and more fog.
E 'middle of the night now but I still linger in the alleys of Erice. An intricate maze of veins and capillaries surrounded by dry stone walls and churches crooked and worn. Suddenly, as often happens in this town, and set the fog shrouds everything. Continuation indolent, mesmerized by the train of thought and the trampling of my leather soles. I love to lose the osmosis of the bronchioles of cobbled streets, stairs, courtyards, bends, courtyards, cloisters, balustrades, abysmal views all the way down to Trapani, the salt marshes, meandering to the sea, islands Egadi; enjoy the black sky, deep quilted twinkling stars, the swarm of the Milky Way. But now the mist I can see only what touches. Sometimes I close my eyes and caressed by the wind and sounds of the night. The street lamps light up small patches of milky fog that envelops herself. Runs alongside a Jewish cemetery with the graves disconnected, uprooted half the tombstones. I did not think there was one in Erice. Within in the cemetery, on the delay of calligraphy Hebrew inscriptions that I can not decipher. Way beyond. I am captivated by all things that I perceive, tasting amazingly like an apparition. Without realizing it I ended up totally out of hand. Every now and then emerge from the fog figures that are swallowed again a moment later nell'impalpabilità white: a man with a drooping mustache, dressed dapper in his narrow, leaning on a cane tip with black lacquer with gold and ivory handle in the shape of skull, fog, a elderly couple, perhaps centuries old, fog, a dog with his tail between his legs, announced by the rhythmic touch of her nails on the marble, I scanned with a yelp, launching into an acceleration, fog, a woman in white silk evening (climbing helmet of blond hair) lights a cigarette from a long silver cigarette holder, fog and a child - or a dwarf? - In shorts, fog, a priest with a broad-brimmed hat and black robe, fog, a horse-drawn carriage with wheels that creak. Neighing. The sound of hoofs fades slowly. Fog. Chimes a bell from a high tower. Fog. A bat - who, like me lost orientation - almost makes me drop the hat. I am lost. Vago at a certain hour of the night to the woods of Erice. Barking of dogs chasing each other in the remote districts of the country. The crickets sing the usual concert of boos. Feel in the fog at a distance indefinable bursts of laughter, snatches of conversations, thick whisper. I can not find that a few meaningless words. It will be a happy brigade of young people the wee hours. I can not understand or where they are or how much time has passed. Maybe an hour, maybe two, but I feel - as a suspect - to walk an infinite time. I sit on a rock, breath: I follow my exhalations to be confused with the fog in smoky spirals. I realize I'm rubbing elbows with a couple, I detached from the group: they kiss passionately.
The fog makes an appearance as diaphanous.
She turns to stare. Approaching the head until you touch my face, and discerning, searches for long. Then he tells his worried lover:
"But you also have the impression that there is someone next to us?".
"But no, you say," replied the young man.
"But I could swear that he saw as the breath of a man who was swirling fog, right here beside me."
hold my breath, the young man stretches out his hands in the exact spot where I am. His arms, while girdling, through my body without touching. I remain fools.
"Can not you see that there is no fog? And who do you think there is a ghost? Come here, silly. "
and begin to kiss.
disappear in a gust of dense fog.
Me or them?
scream: "Who among us is the fantasmaaa?".
No one answers.
Fog and more fog.
