pesca forza tira pescatore

i sit on a chair, i look at the ceiling. i'm thinking hardcore, my brain is burning itself with hatred, disturbing condition, i feel neurons floating unsatisfied slipping sneaky in a new moment of depression. i fight it, i don't like it, i'm concious of it. still. literature (even) doesn't help, a beer maybe, or that starbucks mug half filled with tea somebody drank yesterday. i stole the cup one day in starbucks, and it was a day of those when exceeding energy takes people to do things they wouldn't do if it wasn't one of those days with exceeding energy. i dreamt of shabba ranks teaching me how to freestyle. i woke up sweating, i cooked some pasta, i look at the ceiling again. the lamp used to be white, than one night federico painted it and i think it looks good. the ceiling is not a boring spectacle, not more than any other spectacle. some people are in control of their life. a moon, in it's first quarter, looks right away like a banana as a child would draw it. actually, focusing on it, i'll find out that i learned pretty soon that there's a way to draw bananas that look like bananas. but this one day i know fingers in my selfportrait were just lines coming out of a circle.