"Do not listen to your eyes, and not believe what you see. All they show is limitation. Look with your understanding, find out what you already know, then you will learn how to fly (...) He realized suddenly that his friend was no more divine than he was. Without Limits "(" Jonathan Livingston Seagull, "R. Bach).
snow remains confident. Does not disappear at dawn. Certa snow remains, but not stiff. Expanse remains soft inside your soul. Certa snow remains and you can not forget it. Why did you part in some way and have tolerated the presence of the white silence to let you friend, until it becomes one thing with it. The cold heats. Just share. To think that only those who love the cold can turn into an attempt at embrace. Sometimes the wheel turns for those who are close behind. And you're on top of a mountain and wonder how to welcome the aliens, to cease Levissima crystal with soapy storylines than three, to find that there are silences that you never had the courage to listen. All topped off with tasty fried macaroni, unforgettable climbing, snow balls thrown by treachery, cazzarielli never tried, but never think chains used and the fineness oxfordiana as our inseparable accomplice. Somehow the angels exist. I'm not asexual, they have wings and often do not believe in god. But there are. The hand cream left in the bag, left in chocolate under the pillow, in the "how are you?" said with a sincere interest in the outstretched hand on the shoulder of others even when there is a camera lens to capture, in the "we've missed or" us to check in without the pressure of the Convention, on the journey ... The angels travel when we travel, and when they can not accompany us, send us the snow.
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