In Berlin there is the time to think. In an entirely different way from thinking that there is here in Milan. In Berlin, the ideas can take shape in a manner so easy that the noose around his neck that you feel when you get here there is not anywhere near a dream. Berlin is a city of children. Families. Of young people. Berlin is a city for its past has a fucking afraid of itself. His story still oozes from the asphalt, it is spoken but suffers talking about it. The breaths in the streets, in people's eyes. Difficult to heal a deep wound, perhaps it should remain so. Civilisation wins in this way, hanging his head, and turning the bad that there was in complete freedom of action. There is no traffic, no crime, no trial. There is a room called "mafia kuchen", the only name we shudder. It 's a place of real wood with an inside space for children. The mothers are relaxing in the table and the kids have fun. Simple stuff. Here, Berlin is full of simple things everywhere you turn. No claim aesthetics, you can spend an evening like themselves at home. Then come back here and take a bath in a smelly shit most can conceive. For now, life is not easy, set foot in Italy and the grip of problems there is always someone efforts to give yet another crackdown. You wake up and read only this or that maneuvering in the shadows for a trumpet. I am a victim of any hint of microcazzo show of this band of powerlessness that governs us. Greedy old pig. Get a saw, from time to time.
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