departed May 23, 2007 for what was the experience that changed his life. Stefan Paskus and Fabrice Bortofn, the first German, Alto Adige's second of the hikers were very experienced, had, along with some of the peaks reached the world's most prestigious. On May 24, began the climb. They were very organized, had a sort of tent heat, a strange thing that protects them from the days of heavy snowfall. Now, I'm not an expert on mountain then I can not tell more, but in those days the weather conditions here were really tough, thank goodness they had the tents, but they were strange hikers, went around a little 'adventure, they put a lot of time , they enjoyed the contact with nature, and if they are in a place that's like two or three days. But around 4000 meters began their adventure. They saw what looked like a footprint in the snow, photography, and continued their journey. On 10 June, at about 4550 meters saw the creature that changed his life, they still think it is a female Yeti, were shocked by the lack of aggressiveness on the part of the docile beast. Who knows maybe he was just ate, but he was there, docile manner of speaking, we are still talking about a beast of about 2 meters and 50. The two managed to photograph it, he was intimidated by their presence there (!). Mysteries. They reached the top and try to go but did not find. As you know, the rest of the Yeti tipini women are very shy and at this point, it seems, do not eat human flesh. 
arrives each. I close my office, I call a couple of friends (right) and go back to see Silvio. He had to leave the unit and through the square. There was already a lot of people. My friend is excited (Max, for those who know). I can not comprehend the crowd. My thoughts go to students who are screaming against all morning him and watch them all and laugh, isolated, blocked by the police and carabinieri. will be twenty. They have my sympathy. Silvio does not arrive. I'm afraid I have lost time, they must return to work and I go back ruefully at the agency. Do not see him again. Sad, I start surfing the internet, I see the video of that thing of cu coo (which I absolutely do not comment). I go out again, I want to smoke a cigarette. yet another of this long day. And my life changes. I see that door open plaza to instill. E 'is the signal to exit. Vado. Through the square with plush step (I know you're thinking of my step, and plush been laughing ....) Exit him. I'd settle for a ride. But the old ladies do not. "Silvio a basin, "Silvio are great," "Silvio six legendary. Silvio stops in front of me. two feet. Heck I could tell him everything. But I did not. I was afraid of these old ladies and those triestinazzi evil. But in those seconds I was able to see the good fruit of his transplant, horrible. Guys, can one with all those billions can not solve his problem in a dignified manner of baldness? You may not realize that close her color orange is really inquetante? Me with goose bumps, I greet you, I can not wait to leave this day behind and thrown to bed feeling the chills caused by the vision of cold orange and my bare feet.
The first movie had the honor of being reviewed by my stubby fingers this is small masterpiece, Tropic Thunder. Attention, Attention. It will seem wrong to define a small masterpiece of film Ben Stiller, but I think it is. His only film so far, that made me really laugh was Zoolander, Derek Zoolander personified as a model in crisis due to the advent of bubbly (only in the movie), Owen Wilson. Stiller impresses me. I impress his characters, characterized in exceptional cases dall'eroinomane Jack Black, which I think reveals the best comedian around, the amazing Robert Downing Jr. fell perfectly into a role where the character comes with dark skin of a black soldier. But who is really over the top is Tom Cruise. Put in a drawer for a moment Scientology, pulls out a performance by Oscar (yes oscar is ..) in the shoes of a filmmaker fat, bald and bad that gives some real pearls of vulgarity and viciousness. Memorable his ballet in the credits. Will go down in history. 
This woman is a myth, carried out on 685 votes in parliament so far she's not just 571 times (only 83, 36% of absence). A justification there is to say that now it is no use going to parliament. He has the distinction of missing woman but just eighth in the ranking. This way you do dear Maria Grazia.
forgot. And 'National Alliance
ROME - Paolo Guzzanti, a member of Forza Italy, Silvio Berlusconi back to criticize and, this time through the pages of his blog, he gets angry with Mara Carfagna. The minister is called "roadmap to gender equality", "unsuitable" to play that role. Not only: that of Berlusconi, against him, was a "nomination of exchange", offered in exchange for something that the senator does not specify. And that costs a libel suit. A position that follows the statements, made on 8 October, Guzzanti when he attacked the Prime Minister for having praised Putin's Russia. "Berlusconi makes me sick," he said on that occasion. Now, without much critical half-measures, the Minister of Equal Opportunity: "According to some witnesses say that I consider credible, reliable and not at all interested - write in comments in response to a reader's - there are proportionate reasons to fear that the lady in question fill the post for reasons beyond the assessment of the capacity of servant of the state, even an apprentice. His intelligence is nothing political. " Again: "It remains an open question unanswered: What merits special led this young citizen of the Republic for a career so swift? I wonder how this person got the position. "But the accusation of Guzzanti is heavier, because it is the appointment of a genuine exchange, a favor done to the Prime Minister Carfagna. Referring to a number of interceptions from the unpublished papers but that he would read, Guzzanti responds to a reader who asks if the "appointment of exchange" had more than one: "As far as I know, from eyewitnesses, more than one. For this scandal would be devastating, devastating constitutionally and institutionally. More exchange, That is a consideration. As Cossiga wrote: 'in my time was offered a string of pearls or a flat'. "
One of the pearls of the Mediterranean, in my opinion is the island of mine clearance. It is well known and this makes it very special. We can get there by ferry from Trieste in about three hours, three hours at a cost of € 30/35. It 's the perfect place to spend 3 or 4 days in total relaxation and freedom. For more is known for its beach which is the almost Caribbean controaltare the port very chaotic but extremely characters. Walking along the pier of St. Januário is somhow compelled to stop to enjoy a grilled fish in the sea is the ideal solution to one of your evenings spent in this corner of paradise. On the same evening you can attend even if you're lucky, one of the many street festivals that are held almost every month on the island, evenings of folk music with the outline of Smirniana folkroistici dances. A treat not to be missed. Regarding the accommodation on the island There are two small hotels facing each other in the center of the city and a hotel on the beach big enough but still perfectly with the landscape style naturist. 
But the main thing is and remains (as well as you can easily tell from the photo) the beach of fine white sand and a sea so clear you can see the fish to approach it but to give you the most likeable morsettini feet, hence the Mass tourism has not yet arrived and can be seen from these little things. Worth a visit is the view of the temple of Geropotamos named after a river in Crete. In this temple in ancient times it was elected governor by the council of wise men. I essays were the two older members of each village and were a total of twelve and remained imprisoned until the investiture of the chosen, a ritual that reminds me 'the election of Pope Legend has it that every election was sent to the Mine Action Centre of the village on a white horse, the youngest of the council of wise men playing a horn, which announced the agreement reached by them then began a celebration that lasted 12 days and 12 nights out of respect for the advice of the wise. 
While Visco published income, I will spend.
I bought it!!
floor trembles trembles
track of the day: go to myspace or Treat Treack-> The cover of the signing of Robin Hood, that of Cristina D'Avena.
was December, during my usual activities Editor of Comotalco, I found the big news: concert of David Van De Sfroos to Datchforum. April 19, date only.
Ah, David .. that David's concert at Asylum (fantastic setting), the pogate Pianella to the eternal wait at the Gallop of Villa Erba. David himself over the last two years so I liked to disk as bored me live .. twice in square Cavur I'd gone before! gnek gnek
That David, Davide Van De Sfroos.
Ah, the Forum .. that forum where I saw the Queen, I felt that Forum silent as a cathedral and scream of joy and tears.
Where we play on the Tuesday before a stranger, such Knopfer.
first I was thrilled, the trend of recent years had moved away from both public concerts (volgarotto that audience, but it is the most casinos and, perhaps, the warmest when it triggers), the arrangements are not ideal for blues mosh and sing, were only the die-hard and never, ever would have filled the Forum.
It would take something magic.
A magic
spend the holidays on time and I forget this concert.
The topic of the forum has slipped down, no passive observer of music (hereafter abbreviated as FPM, which is not a group prog) is very concerned. In the meantime I am married and I became father (not true, but there is good).
It 'an album in one piece.
Forget a return to the sounds of Short and Tivan or E Semm parties. Now the figure is drawn, the sounds are made by many different tools, all or almost strictly aids. There is also space for real sounds from noise-film, which also hits on the chests. The singing is sometimes hard, grated edgy, sometimes deliberately refrain.
It 'an album in one piece.
Because when you leave the party get to the end, not daring to disturb him, in a suspended between the mystic and dreamy.
David sits down, I can see it says:
of a gentleman, a lagheé like many others, who imagines a life as he sees another build. He expects, that point where I sleep under el sass.
rituals and shamans. There is no need to disturb the Aborigines and American Indians. We've got it, hidden somewhere in our valley.
a conceited playboy, the sexiest actor of the circle of bowls.
of a love born in the mud of New Orleans, a story that perhaps will not end.
Stories incorrigible smuggler, mining tired of ordinary people, waves, mountains and motorboats. Reflections and canzonacce from inn.
They run so many words in these 15 tracks.
A magic
PICA is almost entirely in dialect Como (lakes for the detailing), but the scale positions. There is talk of Italian charts. There is talk of fourth place. Tickets are sold 5,000, then 8000 .. nine .. ten .. ELEVEN thousand ! Sold out. So you get to April 19.
The event is now named, it must be dealt with all the trappings necessary.
At 18 in the square of the inputs of Assam, we are there, with another thousand Desfan. Some people drink, some eats, and those who Ćićarija racks his brains with the comparisons.
E 'now! The race on the steps, the parterre, the second row. Same chunk of April 5, 2005, unbelievable.
21.15 pm. The band enters. SOUND Intro and go, we start with the Balera. The forum is hot, people are to make room for the stands were opened up the sides of the stage, the eleven thousand (but are more!) voices are a unique, powerful roar. Alter all the songs in Pica, already hailed as evergreen, the historic warhorses.
little to say about the quality of the songs and the concert, superb.
Here we must tell you about as excited as a forum a few times. A chorus that never ends, a choir that comes from all over Italy. Consume 40
Pass, lighters in the wind, the atmosphere laid, to sing softly.
need to close your eyes and cleaning Galena boasts, is a journey through time, recalls the beginnings of a career game to bet that now does not know what the next set as the limit. And that, between tracks and the other, would not want to do is to thank. La balada
of Genesis, the Boat Builder, Cyberfolk, Fill de Ferro De Sfoos, Ventaanas, Nona Lucia Pica, New Orleans, The tip, the third wave. Follow one after another and the environment rather than cool, the red-hot. Ah, you see, did not remain between the grooves of the dear old Laiv pogo!
thanks David, speak a lot, engages in bars, proves to handle it on special occasions. Read some uncertainty about the word, but it is well supported by 11 thousand prompters. It seems tireless, after 3 hours do not bat an eyelid, while below is the eaves, with the voice in the cellar.
David thanks, and greets this time for real. One last roar answered.
A magic
The curtain falls.
I'm not with my usual self.
I would gladly listen to, once again, on the return journey.
PICA!
LB
rains.
In this city, buried beneath the clouds, surrounded by artificial light, like a cathedral, the tears of heaven fall incessantly, it was impossible to get them to stop.
The people who are sheltering under umbrellas, has become forgetful of the sky.
She looks at him through the small windows of the apartments, but without searching the height.
How do you see the rain, people stop to watch and take an umbrella before leaving.
was so before?
Before the angels fall? O
with them has fallen on this city, the anger of the Lord?
It 'happened, but nobody was able to capture the moment.
as if something important had passed under the eyes of everyone, but so silent, so sudden and slow, or fast, that they are invisible to everyone except, perhaps, to those who are involved.
This city has become a prison, the rain draws bars on every window and sky, the color of lead, shows no mercy whatsoever.
Yet, a prison is not perhaps a place to serve their sentences and from which, sooner or later leave to resume his life?
In different places of this city, there are creatures that look at the sky every day, hoping to see him open up, like a hug, a smile and invite them to rise again, to wrap them in the blue .
And yet, still prisoners of their sin, condemned to distorted memories, frustrated desires, forbidden dreams, fallen angels roam the streets, looking for a way back up there ...
And I can not help but hear their voices, eyes without tears ...
CHAPTER 1: Demian
All I see is beautiful.
All I see is ugly.
Everything around me is not mine, as if it were always just beyond the reach of my hands.
I know not of this world, bears the mark between his shoulders. A brand cruel.
My wings torn off.
I have few memories of when I had the wings, but even now I think, sometimes, to feel the weight.
Especially when there is wind and swells my shirt, my arms tend to open up.
As if I could still fly.
's just a recurring dream, one of the wings, a distorted memory of a sick mind who lives on the edge of the world, not above, not below, not in the middle.
I watch the world go by, I look in their eyes my image, but I feel that I do not see.
too young.
Everyone looks vague, which does not pursue either the light or shadow.
In this world, people are living without really being alive.
But I wonder if this should become aware of a fallen angel from heaven for their sins.
My wings ...
's so painful, even just thinking about it.
The slaughter is renewed, as if the physical pain was indelible, impossible to erase, even through the years, through a thousand other memories and other suffering.
Why?
Every time I try to push my mind in those moments, clenching his teeth in pain, clutching fists in anger, my memories stop as suddenly burned by a light that blinds me, pulling them to the reality that I, at present, no hope ...
I Fell in flames, in a world bathed in tears .
I showered the pavement with my blood, mixing it with water.
Ravens have torn my flesh already torn, cold metal, I shouted my new status, my membership in this material world, where the pain is physical.
Where there is love.
I know there are others like me, you cursed beings by God, who err on this ground under the sky, in this prison.
A day will come to me.
do not know why I have this certainty, but it is.
I am the beacon that guides them.
O are the fire that burned the moths ...
CHAPTER 2: ENID
Leaving put his hand over the threshold and gathered in the palm, wrapped in white bandages, a few drops of rain. Gray rain, running along an old stone building eroded by time, slipped on the dirty windows, the statues black, their eyes lifeless.
her, the woman dressed in red, wore red shoes with a heel, the ones that wrap around his ankle with a red ribbon.
He wore a light waterproof, semi-transparent, a handkerchief to cover the elaborate hairstyle.
It 's very beautiful when walking down the street, although rarely the people turn to look at her a second time.
has something that slips away eyes, a bright light ...
Maybe.
Enid went to the park today to watch the lake, the fish looking for pieces of bread along the banks, pointing out when someone is stopped Disposable.
not happen anymore, but they keep coming back.
She sits on the stone bench, decorated with arabesques of moss, and looks upward, the tops of the buildings which converge toward the sky like the pillars of the churches.
Search for a chink in the clouds, with desperate eyes.
His hands wrapped hide cruel cuts, which was self-inflicted hoping to forget another pain, stronger. What
of its wings cut off, those wounds still open, still bleeding, that gasping like fish dying that the storm brought too close the shore.
A Enid look like creatures dying. Find
comic desperation in their eyes, their attachment to life.
For a fallen angel prison life is more terrible and Enid, countless times, tried to escape, without success.
A girl who wanders in the rain, wearing the red of his blood, the red of his fire.
laughing and crying with his hands raised above their heads, scratch the sky, to break their nails.
But not even open a gate.
continues to rain.
Enid enters the water, makes its way among the plants grown on the banks, the leaves rigid, almost sharp.
insects fly away, while the fish arrive, stretching their mouths to mute white meat of this stranger.
drops keep falling on the surface of the lake.
Enid now see the sky through the water.
The clothes are inflated, for a moment his body has lost weight and it seemed to fly again.
Until you miss your breath and the water has spread to his lungs.
black algae, grown without sun, they grabbed, taken by the ankles and pulled down, while the silver fish flit around like butterflies.
would want to struggle to return to unconsciously want to live, but the decision to die is stronger. Hands cling to trees in the background, heavy clothing in the anchor depth.
" Kill me," he thinks.
" Kill me!" Implores.
The lips do not form bubbles in the water.
CHAPTER 3: Trystan
am surrounded by unhappiness, perhaps the author or the victim's favorite.
Often I think it's my fault that Enid went crazy.
His mind was burned by the fire of fall, or God, in addition to tear the wings, has even taken away the reason?
E 'was a compassionate gesture to the dearest of His angels, or cruel, for the one who most hated?
I wonder if there is then all the difference ...
Today I found in the park, floating in the middle of the lake.
How can a living being, any time, devise a way to try to kill himself?
She still has not understood that the angels do not die?
angels, without love of God are everlasting, like love itself.
Though perhaps we're not angels, we are not even human beings. We are something that floats in the middle, in limbo filled with despair. The
heal our wounds, with the exception of the wings.
Our blood that bathes the world does not dry out and soon returns to flow in our bodies made materials from the curse.
You know, Enid?
I look at you while you I hold in my arms, face immense pale, eyes closed, her lips livid.
My love for you has not diminished, has not changed, it is neither more nor less than it was before the fall.
When I loved you in heaven.
E 'for you that I accepted all this for you every day I find the strength to come and try to collect your body established by your cruelty and your hatred for yourself and for this our condition.
I'm not looking for a way back.
I do not care.
I do not see the labyrinth in which we are forced, I do not see the prison. Anything that makes me suffer is the distance that exists between us and I, just me, I try to break down ...
I just want you, I want your eyes to look at me, that your body tries to My.
But it does not happen.
For me this is the ultimate curse.
I'll bring in our shelter, a building that people have abandoned all'incuria time.
scales echo of my steps.
The roof has collapsed, sometimes water comes from the ceiling of the rooms, then it is as if even the walls cry, tinged with gray.
The water stains have taken strange forms.
You see there faces and call them by name. Demian is the most nominated.
I do not know who he is, although I feel that I should know, I have distorted memories, but some things to remember.
remember that an angel caused the fall.
Then I loved and he loved us all. But many things have changed since then ...
Watch your eyes, Enid, looking like something that is not in this room.
When you wake me axles.
Your broken nails scratching me, until I bleed and I have to use all my strength to hold you.
After a first moment, it is difficult to overcome your resistance, you're weakened by the suicide attempt, quickly end your energy.
you cast on the bed and crushed under my weight so you do not move. Your clothes are soaking wet sheets, cold between us two.
you take them out, as gently as possible, without getting hurt, and no reopening your wounds will take off the bandages at the wrists and hands. Cut white and pale, with no traces of blood, gasping, waiting to heal completely and disappear.
Your body will return intact as before.
you remove the bodice, loosing every belt, with patience.
My breath on the stumps of the wings ripped makes you cringe.
I hurt you without meaning to, I can not help it. Finally, you undo your hair, the braid has been discarded, the crimson curls will fall everywhere, like a cloak.
You're beautiful, breathtaking.
My desire for you grows inside me like a tide, called the moon.
you try, even if you do not want me. I know how to win your refusal.
not need to touch me, you can close your eyes with your hands and pretend that is not me. I know you do not love me, it is no secret.
I just could touch you, have your body soft and white, hold your life in my hands, mix my breath away with your own.
It 's like climbing to the sky and then falling again. Try the thrill of flying, only through the joining of our bodies.
The supreme act of love is not this?
How, then, that has become painful and beautiful at the same time?
Maybe love has been banished from our lives cursed?
part of the sentence that I want to Enid, who does not want me? And she wants another one that has never sought?
CHAPTER 4: ENID
E 'lying on the bed, her naked body that still throbs, as if he had a fever. A pleasure
uncontrollably welled up involuntarily, that makes you short of breath, which gives her a pain so deep as to make her cry.
blink, dropping tears on the pillow.
Trystan is next to her, the large sweaty back still bears his graffiti.
Enid looks at him a long time, studying her face, beautiful, tanned skin, eyes as blue as the sky they are denied, the strong nose, lips fleshy and sensual.
When he turns around, her hands trying again, stroking his white skin, entwining her fingers with his. He kisses her with a lust that breaks my heart.
feel his love, a residue of divine that still lingers in him, that the fire was unable to erase.
But he can not give him in return. His heart is dry. His mind is just a name.
Demian.
Enid gets out of bed and walk barefoot to the window.
The floor is damp, dirty glass powder he left out the cold.
" The rain falls from above, to be received by the harshness of this world made of stone and steel. I look be greeted with a hug and I remember other hard and ruthless and drops more hugging, more tragic, painful and sustained.
You remember them, true, Demian?
was you to weigh up to stop me my wings to fly, to condemn the inevitable fall. Your eyes
deep blue, your smile so perfect ... You were an angel or
your feathers had already begun to fall, as autumn leaves, dried and marches, fall from the trees?
I have called you, just opening up the lips and moving them around my name.
" Enid"
Until then I had never known any form of pleasure.
Maybe I had wanted to see, along with the dream of the flesh, never imagined there was the chance to really test it.
For us, that we were angels, the existence revolved around perfectly.
because you want something that we could remove it?
What makes us so inexorably to the limit, to the border where it ends and we know we risk falling into the unknown? Because the pleasure
resembles, in itself, so much pain?
You knew what you were doing when your long white fingers were clamped around my wrist?
When our faces were touched your golden hair and melted and mingled my flame?
I felt your warm breath near misses, like a breeze that comes from the burning desert, born under the hot sun of midday.
I felt my skin under your fingers, my spirit to take form, shaped by your touch, as my mouth opened greedy, eager to become a body to be able to touch your body and your mouth.
The lure of the flesh was so strong ...
Left behind everything without regret, no regrets.
Your kisses me drunk, I was more than I wanted, as if it were impossible to stop once started. We explored our bodies these new and unknown with the slowness of someone for whom time does not exist.
The memory is sweet, but it hurts like a knife too sharp.
were our cries to be guilty or were convicted by a desire? "
CHAPTER 5 DEMIAN
For celestial being can not even imagine falling. Only once fallen
you realize how high we were flying.
look at the sky from the earth and it seems so far away ... did nothing. How can the wings made of feathers support a heavy body like this?
The church is dark at night.
remain only the lights of candles to illuminate this darkness. The eyes of the saints stare accusers.
The only one who looks at me with compassion is Christ from his cross, the suffering face like mine. We
like, me and him! He too was sentenced to a life on earth. As his was not a punishment but a mission, is the only one to have experienced the afterlife and then the material, preserving the memory of the previous year. He suffered but eventually returned to the throne of the Father. Sometimes
dream to soar again, over the buildings, on this damp gray prison that nourishes my body and my mind suffering illusions. But a voice inside of me, calling me stupid.
Dreamer.
Illus.
I also have my mission. It's called redemption. Not of men, but the fallen angels, the angels curse serving their sentences here.
The night usually vague, with no sleep, a prisoner of fragmented memories, which I try desperately to merge into a single memory, to reconstruct the events, although I know it will be terrible, when I stop to look at the pieces of the puzzle and I will see in its entirety.
The hidden image.
The priest who collected my body pierced by the iron cross tells me that perhaps it is the mercy of God that I hide the past.
My confessor is trembling, I know.
When I walk in the night, deprived of sleep, I hear him complaining, moaning in his sleep.
afraid of not being able to bear the weight of my sin, when that will come to light. He
fear of being blinded by the evil I have done and how to burn paper in a bonfire.
Yet, his hands stroked my head, when the discomfort comes over me and my broken sobs filled the church. His arms, emaciated by the disease of me around the shoulders, while his lips I whisper kind words in his ear.
Then, while drying my tears, I feel his excitement. I
is too close.
I understand that my beauty makes him feel emotions he thought he had lost with the passing of years. Hardly people approached me so much, it's like something keep her away.
But he's different.
not afraid to get on the roof of his church for free my flesh from the iron that had taken my fall.
The church was dripping blood.
my blood, carried by the rain poured down the gutter and the pavement of the square.
He went up and saw the crows, pecking my exposed flesh, croaking like so many demons met.
How long you stayed there staring at me?
I remember that I opened my eyes and seeing his black silhouette, among the black shapes of crows and the rivulets of rain.
I thought it was the devil, came to take my hand.
Everything in me screamed my pain and my despair. Never before then I had suffered so much ... except maybe in the fall, but not in Serbian memory, as I said.
But I had no breath to scream, and the tears I took them all away in the rain wild, I scourged and removed, the eyes of God, the sight of red too strong for my blood.
moving their lips, but did not leave his breath. Blinking his eyes, chasing away the drops that I wanted to blind.
Then the crows fled and cold hands I took away a piece at a time, my cross.
Never, in all that process, the consciousness has left me.
I was lucid, but made it almost mad with grief, unable to find refuge in unconsciousness.
The priest took me in his arms and carried me down the narrow stone stairs. I kept
as you can take a thing, not a living being. Helplessly, I was like a puppet, a puppeteer who has dropped. Then he laid on a bed, contact with the dry cloth got me back to mind something
One word.
" Loss"
I felt the tears start to come out of my eyes.
and have not stopped for a long, long time.
long, wondering why I was crying, I realized I had forgotten the answer.
EPILOGUE
This is a city that slowly ruined, crushed under the weight of a constant rain, which seems lazy to take away everything, it seems to dissolve the stone buildings, smooth faces of the statues, to make them devoid of any feature can turn the streets into muddy rivers where people like boats sailing without moorings, adrift on the current.
All black, all gray.
With the rain we lose interest in things that around us and we cease to look.
So no one sees the little secrets that surround us.
The faces of angels condemned.
The passage of time leaves no traces.
All proceeds always the same, under the sky covered under this rain sad, in this city without shadows.
So the angels do not change over the years and live one day after another like flowers that open and close waiting to dry.
Only I will see their end, there will come a day away, without being announced by anyone, as beautiful as they were beautiful at the time of grace.
I am the watcher, the man who walks in the biting wind of a fate of others, the man with no history, which examines what nobody, not even God, wants to see more. I
preserves the dreams of these fallen beings, their illusions of their lives without a future, their visions of decay, made even more bitter by the memory of past greatness.
And I can not be sad because I feel no sorrow, nor can I feel sorry for them because they do not try.
I look at them there and one day see the end of their suffering. The only consolation.
Ossian.
Edward remembered the day he arrived on the shores of Normandy, twenty-five years earlier. That country was disappearing over the line rippled sea had been his home for two thirds of his life ... A house is not his, he had always lived as a guest of the relatives of his mother after his brother was gone.
thought back to the day he arrived, twelve years old, his father Ethelred, his mother, Emma, his brother Alfred. They fled from one country to invade, in which there was no room for the royal family, unless they put in for better times. His brother Edmund had been in England, instead, to fight. They had only a few years apart, Edmund and Edward, but they were enough to make the first man and second a child.
Edmund loved to fight, he loved to be king. On the death of the Danish king Sweyn, who had invaded their country, Ethelred and Emma had returned and had taken their place on the throne of England, but the young princes had been in Normandy, safe, protected as small treasures.
Less than a year later, he died Ethelred and Edmund had reigned for a few months a kingdom tormented, struggling day after day against the Danish King Canute, until, exhausted, sick or poisoned maybe even Edmund was dead.
The news had come confused, too many events that occurred one after another. Three kings had succeeded in one year and the last was a Dane, one of the invaders for decades Ethelred tried to drive off the coast of his country, without success. For many years he had paid taxes on those marauders, until those people tired of the gold and had demanded a whole kingdom.
over that stretch of sea that separates England from Normandy, Edward had heard it all. He had mourned the death of his father, the flight that his wife Edmund had had to deal with the two infant children, to some obscure kingdom in the south east of the continent. He felt great anger when he heard that his mother had become the wife of Canute, making it legal, in a sense, the position of the foreigner on the throne.
time was spent in a hurry, Edward was a boy became a man and his sadness, for events over which she felt she had no power, made him want to enter the Church, leaving everything to his brother Alfred, forgetting the 'England, that distant country, now unknown, who had first cast and then had taken his entire family.
But he had allowed to follow his vocation.
His relatives who were waiting for the moment when he might return to England by King, and Edward could not help but understand that I also wanted to strengthen their position. And they did not think that was what he wanted.
His life was spent alone, surrounded by friends who tried to bring him to Norman hunts, parties and banquets, but they could not fully understand the heart of a man who looked at everything with a certain detachment. Edward seemed to wait for his destiny might be fulfilled, although he did not want it to be just that, even if it did not approve of the job that he had been given, the position he had inherited.
was thirty years old when killed his cousin, his mother's nephew, Robert, and King Canute.
The post of Duke of Normandy, in the absence of other heirs, he touched the bastard son of Robert, a boy of seven-year-old William, to whom Edward had never known existed. And suddenly he found himself forced to swear fealty to him, kneeling before him and kissing his sword, knowing that that child would depend on its future.
the throne of England, however, was given by the council of nobles and prelates, the sons of Canute, Harold and Hartacnut, brother of Edward. Hartacnut was only sixteen and was in Denmark, so it was Harold, a boy of twenty, sitting on the throne. No one came to call Edward and Alfred.
Perhaps distance had created a rift is too deep, it was not possible to heal for either party.
Some months passed, during which Edward retired to a monastery. She felt so many mixed feelings in his heart. The desire to return to the land that would govern in the name of God, for which so much he could do. A kingdom established, folded so many misfortunes, which he could bring light ... At the same time he felt the need to close almost life itself, to be alone with God, to forget everything that was out, all that was forced to face without feeling ready.
was at that time that his brother left for England.
When he heard, Edward rode to the pier, on a day of heavy rain, with just two friends in tow, who had warned. They reached the coast
muddy and cold, while the rain poured from the clouds low and black. The waves attacked the pier, covering water, and for a time, Edward found himself hoping that the time had prevented the ship from ... But it was not happened. The ship had set sail a few hours earlier, now disappeared over the horizon, perhaps in sight of England.
Edward dismounted, and only Robert mighty arm held him by the approach too much to the fury of the waves. The rain hid her tears, but the trembling of her shoulders hunched openly showed his sorrow. The knowledge that he would never see his brother.
England, with its wars and its intrigues, had taken him well.
He dropped to the ground and just felt that Guillaume covered him with his coat and was back riding. That night they slept in an inn on the road and all the time Edward had nightmares in which Alfred was murdered in horrible ways.
He could not explain the reason for his confidence, but when the news came, a couple of months later, the actual death of Alfred Saxons invited by one of the accounts and then imprisoned in treason, then blinded and mutilated and left to bleed to death, Edward felt that part of his heart had died with him.
There were wars in Normandy, at the time, because of the barons who refused to recognize the power of little William. Edward felt something every now and then, from his residence in the country, his gilded cage, as he called it with a mixture of sadness and sarcasm.
Despite the French king, Henry I, had accepted the boy as the successor of Duke Robert, others did not want to do. Edward prayed for William, aware that the child was all that left, his only family in Normandy. He hoped to grow, it became an able man, a good man ... and meanwhile, wondered what would have happened if he had been killed. The Normans were sold to Danish kings Edward?
In one way or another, for God's help or the power of man, William was able to grow and the time came when he prepared to become a knight, and himself taking the reins of his duchy .
Edward had had the opportunity to know him enough, a fifteen-not very high, from a rough voice, the way a bit 'too much small change for someone who, like Edward, he was accustomed to the silence of the cathedral, but was raised for war, and No wonder. He was intelligent and mentally ready, already capable, despite his youth, to understand a person with a simple glance.
When it was made a knight, Edward, Prince of England, offered him the gift of a cross of gold, set with precious stones. And he said that one day he would know more worthily repay all that the family of William had always done for him. That summer
two ships arrived in Normandy Saxon, with noble ambassadors. They came to bear the news that Harthacnut had died at only twenty-four years, Harold and his brother before him. And they were also looking for the new king, Edward, to return to England The lineage of Alfred the Great.
Saying goodbye to William, Edward promised him that he would not forget him and that the illegitimate child who had been able to become a duke, would one day become king.
The sea raised high waves meet the ship, the bow by the slender neck of a swan cut through the water with the decision, driven by the wind that fills the large triangular sail.
Edward could not take his eyes from the frothy wake of the ship being left behind, still a track that seemed to tie him to Normandy, but that was quickly vanishing.
His friends Norman, who would accompany him on his return in an unknown country, surrounded him, smiling and talking lightly than the start, but Edward felt a profound sadness before the uncertainty of the future that awaited him. He saw around him, beyond the small group of Norman, faces many strangers, people who knew him and that he did not know itself. Customs that he did not remember, as the native language, which had almost lost control.
He was afraid and his faith in God was not enough to comfort him.
"E 'disappearance is now the Norman coast," said a voice behind him.
Turning, he recognized the Edward Earl Godwin, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England, came personally to bring the king home.
Godwin was older than Edward, but looked younger, perhaps because of his strong constitution, the red color of his face, his booming voice. He seemed to radiate an energy entirely foreign to Edward, who did not fail, however, to appreciate that Danish Saxon race, which seemed so eager to be estimated by the new king.
Edward smiled, savoring the feeling of the salty wind in his beard have grayed with age.
"Yes," he said, "and my heart is sad"
Godwin's eyes had a glow. Perhaps it was only the light of the sun struck them at the time, but Edward would remember that look, in the years to come. He would come to mind, not long after, when he discovered that Godwin was right to order to kill his brother Alfred.
At that time, however, seemed to him only beautiful and proud. Eyes that told the story of a people to whom the same belonged to Edward, but he had never known.
"My king," Godwin said, "It is sad that you feel in your heart, but happiness. Sometimes it also provides us with tears. Now, stop looking back at what you have left, and look forward to what awaits you! "
With a sweeping gesture of his arm, pointed to Edward the bow, the high slender neck of the dragon, which ranged waves and, in the distance, barely visible, the gray line the coast of England.
Bianchi vapors to skeletal twisted pines, moss hanging from the branches, like shreds of clothing, defeats, and wisps floating in the water muddy. On the whole, a full moon, which spreads its silver light on this secret world. The streets running off from here, not even the hunters in the fall is to break the silence is strong. From time immemorial the only footprints that mark the gray mud muddy expanses of these are ours. Those
When the sun rises in ragged clouds, rises slowly above the mist, I go out of my den covered with moss, and through the marsh, pushing me to the border.
There, stones stand, carved by people who can not walk more long under the sky. Idols with large eyes that look grim towards the swamp, monitor brands, where the land ends and the domain of men begins to enemies.
say who protect them. They say they stand guard. But I have never done anything and I step in front of them, hiding their faces to the inquiring eyes. I
Corinth between the roots projections of twisted trees, hidden in the shadows, spying among the leaves and thorns, and look to pass that those who live in the fortress.
On sunny days come and go hunting in the forest.
I listen to their words and their laughter, I look at them competing on horses from the harness of silver, the flashy clothes, rings and bracelets that glow in the sun like flame.
And then, when night falls, when the shadows lengthen and darkness will prevail over the light, I followed them, in secret.
They do not care about the dogs that howl and cower with the tail down between the legs of horses.
They are not aware of complaints of livestock, as they pass on the streets and head to the immense palace on the hill.
I spy on them over the fence, from behind the fences that surround the village, I follow them with longing eyes, knowing that I was denied access to their domains.
I'd curl up in foul, as the moon rises from the pine forest blacks winds and fog on the ground, and stands in silence, covering, slowly, the walls and hedges, silencing the sheep and dogs ...
white And in the silence I hear it again, that sound, so beautiful and so awful ... Someone in the room sounds.
I plug my ears, but I tend to feel more ...
a sublime sound that reminds me with hatred for me is that those strings are plucked, which I listen to is denied, not for me the stories are told, not me or my people speak ...
then gritted his teeth and mangle your fingers between the rocks. The branches of the trees move as I passed, full of terror, while I return to the swamp. There
other cursed beings bow their heads at my approach, and huge serpents swimming in gray plunge.
the night, leave only footprints on the dew of my fingers.
Until the day comes when I decide to violate the ban last.
still echoes the horrible instrument, and the wind carries the notes in the dark, like leaves caught by air currents. I scream to cover the sound, the curse of the snake with my tongue, and claw the air, I could almost broken.
slide over the statues, shadow among the shadows, as silent. As the mist rises I become vapor, which floats on the wind, heavy smell of sulfur comes dall'acquitrino.
And there is the palace, high in its splendor, the roof covered with deer antlers, slender wooden columns decorated, stands against the night as the tallest pines in the forest.
Fires burn on the towers, but the warriors who patrol their world I did not see nor hear me. They feel the restlessness that just takes the dogs, suddenly silent, trembling like puppies. I
creeps in dark corners, away from the lights flickering, and stroking their seasoned oak doors, bracing polished metal. I know I can not stand at my touch, that even the most ingenious windows are closed, if my powerful arm strikes them, if my body will press hard.
I feel like an intruder, in this world that I was banned, everything tells me I should not be here, that in doing so I challenge him who has separated, meticulous, Good and Evil.
But I do not care.
I watch them laughing unaware that precious drink from the cups, singing songs of joy, not knowing that an enemy has entered in their village. Without knowing that an intruder slipped unseen into their world, and is about to destroy it.
Why not stand your laughter and your songs.
not stand the sound of your precious things and hurt my eyes. I hate the crowded banquet and that your master is already old, who looks with joy his subjects and his prosperous domains.
When the lights go down and all is quiet, I enjoy thinking that shouting and singing, will rise tomorrow. What's red and gold, will be painted their clothes. And instead of crying harps will echo in the night.
collect them while they sleep.
how to break the branches that kept me the way, so I separate the limbs from bodies and devour my flesh with my sharp teeth.
paint the walls of carmine and spreads the floor with bones.
Then I go back into the swamp, but before I leave my offering to the protectors of the world that I have broken.
The mist in the morning is dyed red.
On the wings of the wind come the screams, and I now watch them collect the heads, which I placed at the foot of their guardians, red eyes and hollow cheeks.
From this night will still be crying, those who see the light of tomorrow, while those that occur under my fingers will only see darkness and darkness, through the empty sockets of skulls.
They are waiting for me raised today.
Fear vibrates in the air, music that does not offend my ears like that of the harp.
They are there, piled up, with swords in their hands. Make a loud voice so as not to feel a trembling, are over thirty and believe that it is enough.
I let them wait.
I look with patience the moon across the sky and when it is almost dawn, and their eyes are heavy, when the stress of waking has undermined their intent, slide out of the dark.
languishing in the flames of the torches are a flash in their eyes suddenly wide open.
no longer closes.
Then I hear the blood dripping, that ticks on the floor by the broken benches. The boards are smoking and the smell of death spreads in the palace.
My footsteps echo on the set.
'm the Wanderer of the brand, a being who is not of this world. Even now, who are master, escapes me, as if my touch of horror.
The classrooms are dark and deserted. Those who fled are not dead and now only the old lord sat silent in the room, awaiting a decree from Heaven.
None next to him.
I watch from afar and laugh at his misery.
There are no more talk around the fire, nor knights galloping to the moors to the forest.
No sound and no singing, even the candles are lit to dispel the darkness.
I am the master of the high classrooms, this rich palace carved in gold, but I have not made inroads into their world.
I have just brought a piece across the border.
