Il copione non fa una grinza. Fino a domenica Bubi ha l’agenda scandita da appuntamenti: la serata con Giulì, venerdì con Paoletta, sabato con Anna.
Divano, musica, snack, birra. E il cellulare stretto in pugno, saldamente come uno strumento di lavoro. Pronti, attenti, via!
E’ il pomeriggio ideale per le manovre di Bubi. Partono i messaggi, gli s.o.s., gli stimoli graziosi, le imbeccate graffianti. Seleziona, pondera, scrive e invia.
Forse l’ho narrato poco, è necessario soffermarsi su questa pratica di Bubi. Non è un passatempo. Non solo, almeno…
Per Bubi ci sono un momento e una condizione per ogni evento, per ogni persona, per ogni relazione. La sua corte è un po’ un carrozzone: assorted humanity on the road aimlessly.
Bubi A return to firing them all. Lella Even now it is frozen, a little 'free-kick in a little' in catharsis, a little 'to soak. Even Tina, Elizabeth, Angela and Donald do not know but which are spent in bed and thoughts of Bubi. But time and conditions must be perfect. In terms of clarity and harmony, of course ...
Bubi does not seem to soften for those who say they love him, who do not get excited for this to be bred stallion, no pity for those who handed him stories of desperate psychologies. But, dear readers, not gone unnoticed by the careful study of Bubi and Julius. The costume, on human miseries, and the logic of sex, lies on survival.
Bubi subject their women to an endless series of tests, consistently puts to the test. Do not do it for cruelty. And not for pleasure.
Bubi can not accumulate remorse. Do not make it. It could not accept and endure them. It could not forgive them.
not know if I have too many already buried in the heart to be able to add more. I do not know whether he knew l’orrore della loro esplosione. Non so se è diventato lui il rimorso di altri. Forse non lo sa neanche Pedro.
Quello che è sicuro è che Bubi vuole categoricamente escludere la possibilità di averne. Ne è terrorizzato.
Ed è per questo che alle sue donne deve togliere la maschera.
E’ capace di lanciare grida di dolore, di biascicare una tristezza divorante, di vagheggiare una crisi mistica. O semplicemente di mostrare qualche autentico attimo di desolazione e smarrimento. E di starsene poi assorto ad osservare reactions, indifference, paw unfortunate, glaring absences, hateful opportunism. No longer suffers, Bubi. Indeed. Its relief is all there, in the certainty that it is not so important and irreplaceable ...
Why in need, in weakness, in the "normal" that women fade away ... Bubi loses appeal, it becomes a ordinary man or a burden or a full to defend. Bubi like damn, we know.
And he did not consider it enough common ground for experience. He wants to confirmation by all, by each. Always wants to know that words can be containers empty. Want to see how their wounds heal quickly. He wants to read their excuses to escape from real emotional outbursts. Only thus can support at any time their eyes. Call up an appointment for sex. Fun to court when they ask not to be deceived and disappointed ...
Illus? Disappointed? I never have, wow. Furious, maybe. To fall in love not having done so. Not to have distracted from the competition. Not to have won the role of queen. But it's very different!
That illusion, gentlemen, is pure love. And instead of love is not here even glimpsed the outline in the distance.
E 'an afternoon of rubbish, Pedro would say in its raw shots of brevity.
someone worthy of only a few laconic reply of comfort, someone is sending you to sparkle as if they were confetti hasty panacea for all ills. Further, the most unrepentant vain, you improvise philosophers or doctors of the soul. They try to take advantage, in fact. Throwing herself on the fragility in the message trumpeted by Bubi and offer the recipe for happiness ... Needless to say, are cooks and ingredients offering plate. They give lessons in Bubi, are dangled the idea that they might be the only cure for his distress, he improvised repositories of wisdom and prosperity.
Bubi laughs, everything is balm for her fear. Well, fine. Not even a shadow of remorse touched his skin, his head, his heart.
It is a triumph. E 'are well aware of the bitter poverty of so many speeches, that of loneliness, of the transience of such fervor, that of the insensitive, superficial hypocrite.
Perhaps the best love story can donarcela Bubi refusing to write honestly ...
CONTINUE
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