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The reality broke

With reality TV seems to have taken a dead end. To make the camel's back was probably "One two three stable".
Clippings today there is a remarkable title that sums up the desires of the populace to rebel trash.

"Reality, shoo"

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Dedicated to his wife, Michelle Houellebecq (if l ' ha)

There are few nights when I stop to think, both those in which it floats. Before falling asleep I carry around the memory of a day and I welcome the steps, so far, projects in progress. With this momentum I crouched down on the pillow and pass the baton to the night master and mistress. In a dream I eat lobster next to my beloved. I'm going to tell you, break through the inertia, giving up a spell. I hold my breath and birth, sent like a fish in a river of fresh water, quiet as a cat who betrays the day. The story of my love to the particles of my status as a dreamer, a candle winks, excessive for her. The breath, curled up in a thin hope, stands lively after the first words. And the thoughts in a row and bun, you have medicated my nod to side. I speak, roaring with emphasis, that what happens is a gentle unfolding of rage, which is an all or nothing, that I am walking without her ruddy raids place names, and the nights are incestuous jokes with the time when her velvety skin does not breathe on the sheets. I explain that time and the sages had predicted. A walking stick next to a fire that illuminates a white-bearded ruminant. I would like to tighten it, snakes are intertwined, and take it to my own pace, in an ivory tower. Love her and tell her that peace exists in the world. Exiles obliterate all the other poor deluded. I would recite Shakespeare and kidnapped her. I speak, I speak. Life is an origami, which is in heaven. True happiness is to know well enough to hold faithfully in his footsteps. Hello

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Glossary: \u200b\u200bdeterminism (draft 34, clapper) Chicca

glabrous, Canute. Tired. Yellow eyes that struggled to follow the path of dry salts that, pearls forehead, went out after a metro, downstairs, hot asphalt. A stick and a chair, faded material of the century, as their lives, now scattered in other countries, while they, the stars fading, there remains the sad parade here and now.
That morning, the radio gave San Crispino temperatures: 45 degrees. He had never done so hot there, quell'involucro in the hills of Lanzarote and the plain of Saliceto.
Donna Maria spoke softly, his lips and grind from the time its 15 teeth, classmates of that last parade: "Marco Priam and pray for you." He turned, capricious, his two grandchildren who have long walked no more to visit her that summer and had not given up on even a night in the discos of the press to jump on that paesaccio where they were fed, to caress her cheeks wrinkled grandmother.
Overlooked, with four lively little eyes, echoing Renata, the baptizer of Priam: "So far .. so far up there." A gust of carrying this sultry sound to Donna Carla, lost. This, silent, did not seem to think of anything, basked in a lie that some child, years ago, had told her. The scientists were close to the elixir of life, a potion to regenerate tissues and retire Comara Death.
Nothing seemed to scare away bystanders Guitti, in that village of 500 souls, while the mayor was celebrating in Ibiza the new term.

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the Naviglio Grande

"At this point I take the whiskey Armenian."

Giulia