traveling, listening to the radio. On the Road to Damascus I am struck by lighting. Born announced by Virgin Radio Television un'altisonante as giàsentititssima "TV you wanted, now ................( significant pause )........ ............ there. " Wow, and I wanted that tv? I wonder perfect unbeliever. The answer comes as a new revelation: music, LIFESTYLE, culture, nightlife, fashion, and everything "it does syle rock" (ie nymphomaniacs groupies, drugs, liquor, long hair, smashed camperos, hysterical rip-off, apologies of every possible crime, poor personal hygiene, rivers of money, concerts, in which there is a place to pee). The blow was so strong that I stop the car, get down, I kneel in the middle of the carriageway and prophesy.
Aspiring writers, authors and journalists, writers resist! Will reach an age in which fame, success and money. A land of milk and honey and news items, pieces of color, those who read with one eye while the other is a peeling kinder surprise. The age of flabby thinking, a bit of care ', of the parables as "the personality it takes to wear a hat", "shaved is sexy?" "Music that plays when you try to commit suicide?", "Ten secrets to the tip all'eyeliner.
tuttunpologia which will be a time of your nimble pens fly over the surface raconte everything and nothing, filling containers chicchiericcio that will self-destruct within twenty seconds. Unnecessary knowledge will be your name. Interview your blood. The supreme disinterest in your strength. Kill with adverbs, baldness city to the ground with your adjectives and you rub salt with the superlatives and photos of the phone. Reign over anything, to govern the ranks bored, bend the universe to the particular edge above or below the knee, it bangs, no bangs, to Marcel Prost (portmanteau between speed and literature), told in twelve lines.
Dawn of the narrators is being born. And the world will erase from the face of the earth with a cleansing milk.
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