Franco died.
Not bad for a beginning, looking strong ... yeah, that's right.
Franco died, and every time you speak her name, even with the lips of mind, all the memories of his flock in the present.
All together in a fast tail, so close that they collide with one another, such as shopping carts driven by the Pakistanis.
How would you download a backup ... but words! Even the sound that is a valid reason not to use them ... fucking ... barbaric savagery of the French say mica computer, ordinateur say, because we do not say the computer? Certainly the French ...
Franco died, and it is as if every time I tried desperately, with the memories and go back to restore point.
not be restored.
Franco is dead, but I was not there.
I remember the phone call from my father: "Go na dat de Brota notissia, deaths Franco - What works? - El Franco to a friend. "
Franco died. "What Frank?" The childishness of an application for someone who has never grown up and that will never grow, one that seeks to conquer death by pretending not to know what Franco, one of which tries to overcome death with the question stupidest in the world with some stupid human sound, with nothing.
not be restored.
I climbed into the car and I did the same route from the city to the valley, I Franco and have done hundreds of times, many together in a car, vespa, by train.
entrance to the morgue, just behind me, I see that Alessandro has just arrived and I expect to reach. She hugs me and tells me in tears: "What the fuck me up?" As if he had deliberately played a bad shot, as if he realized, Franco, the seriousness of what has made us ... us. . because death affects the living, not the dead.
It 's the pain that makes us say such things? Selfishness? Or love?
not remember his face in the coffin, I remember only small webs on the cheeks of purple veins, perhaps because of lack of staff to the funeral, which made him look like him ... and, in fact, it was not him, was no longer him.
I remember the tears that did not stop or did not want to stop, as if stopping the tears had failed my resentment towards the inevitability of the end, my absurd resistance, which is my inability to understand death.
remember this as their greatest pain, the inability to understand, the death is the negation of life itself in the sense of things is not the sense, not to exist, the essence of negation, evil deaf, blind, mute, decerebration, unaware, unconscious, antimatter, antitutto, like a monstrous black hole whose voluntariness in doing would already be a bad consolation, but no! Morally neutral, so of unspeakable violence.
Franco died, and Roberta now how does it do? How are his mother, his father, his brother and his grandchildren? And how do we do now all of us, his friends?
I remember the tears of his granddaughter, beautiful sorrow.
Uncle Franco is dead, the great uncle Frank, the best possible uncle, and for those who knew him not difficult to understand that for his niece, at that moment, God is dead, at least fair and just God who told us.
She adored him, Franco immediately liked at all, his deep voice, the laugh, his smile, his humor, his sense of friendship, his sincerity, his courage ...
I can not believe that it has lost all her memories, those of naja from Alpine, those of school, love for the mountains, for the simple things in the country ... Of course some are not lost, are in me, inside all those who knew him, but they are our memories, not his, his are lost forever.
I can not believe I lost. Yes, it's the right word, as if I had lost along the way a piece of me, an important piece, an eye, an arm, a leg, but inside, you can not see, which always seems full, as before, seen from outside , from the others. But they are not the same.
Mica is longer, climb the mountain at night with its green Prinz, listening to Talk Talk, not longer possible, spend the night on the lawn with a bottle of coffee with grappa looking dismayed billion of stars in front of us, not as you can, wait for the dawn heralded by a crocheted dew on the grass. Mica is longer, and you can not even get along with the cross on top, as we had planned many times, you can not anymore.
not be restored.
The week before Franco had crossed the mountain, after a while 'we had not seen.
was dropped by the AP that he used in the country and I was greeted in a special way, shaking my hand with both her and saying: "You know I'm glad a casino to see you. "
A clear demonstration of affection was so unusual among us "men" so that I could answer "Mavacagare and down laughing like donkeys both.
Instead he was touched and replied: "Me too, much."
Yes, okay, you always say these things when one dies that is jumping out all the omens and various crap, please. I am only interested what happened.
me enough to come back only at that point, and say more, say, "Yes fuck me too I'm glad Franco" And tell him I love him, tell him the things that "men" do not say, and hug him and let him go more, do not let it go to their deaths from the mouth crippled and black, and drooling demented, go to the huts on the mountain and never come back down.
... that never grew up and that will never grow.
Franco died, without warning, if not a heartburn, not too strong.
As if there should be a warning, as if to die like this, half road, was incorrect.
Franco died in the arms of Robert, the arms of my own desperate helplessness at his home in the valley and is buried in the cemetery of the village and see the mountains across forever and the beautiful mountains.
Every time I visit, and look along the mountains, beautiful mountains, and do those things that many people do, I talk to him, carries a photograph of us with Gabriella and Prinz parked beside the road of the mountain , the more I listen to Talk Talk ... Renee, Renee, Renee, Renee, how the weeks fade Baby, Baby how the streets change ...
"You know that the last two albums that have done are very different, but you hear that stuff, fantastic."
is what were those people who saw a child, when the cemetery took me by force!
Stupid men.
Franco died, two years ago.
not now, when I cry in front of the computer or how the hell you call this shit machine, useless, as almost everything around us, things that we are slaves, objects of exorcism death, which will surely be useful when we present to you, stupid and full of marvel figurine with our attachments and cd-rom.
not an hour ago, walking with a dry eye in the streets around here and people looked at me like watching one to be pitied, someone who "knows the CIA what the fuck that guy?".
E 'dead before, many times, each time when I do not remember which way, coming to his name and start all over dubbing data, like a ritual, not to forget or to bear the unbearable.
Franco died by Stefano Berardi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Italy License .
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