What Is The Best Male Piercing

Thoughts of an old and angry column

I am a survivor. I think it means something. For those irritating, deadly creatures that stand under me, I think that makes sense.
must seek the meaning in everything, everything has a sense simply because it is. In this world, nothing has appeared by chance. Everything to do with anything, any What is cause and effect, catalyst and results.
But those beings, moving in space and in short time as we are not, we are killing.
Not me, I have even given a name: the column.
Feelings?
Sentimentality.
not have hesitated to bring down the mulberry appointments in Davenport, the lime tree in the square of Casale Litta was taken down because their monstrous smelly noisy bus could not maneuver to get back. Until very is the bare, ugly square remained bald. His life, his color, his vigor finished in a few years ago stove.
I did not, has it also made the camellia is a bit 'in there, because it is basically to a private garden, does not block the buses and is not agricultural land. The cedar, well, you end up a book and you are a myth. Cedar is now fenced. It 'a tree become tight.
Solo.
Still Life.
Then every now and then repent.
The mulberry tree was planted by some good soul. E 'come one of them painted green and says things, right things, shared by us in our long, slow ponder. Every so surprising.
the square of Casale Litta is an infant, when separated from the mother branch, attached to a stick to help him stand. The first steps in the wind still can not do it.
We are the second generation trees, grow in two square meters of land contained between stones "decorative". We were born to them. Not grow in our congregation like, not whisper messages through the network of branches and twigs, the wood for us is mysterious, atavistic, a memory in our bark that sometimes floats in front of us but we never quite grasp . The wild cherry
Casale Litta, planted and grown by the wind and rain from the sun, was shot down because it could fall on the roof of a house that now sits where they tore the last screws. It would fall before their miserable pack of brick that is not the tree.
Poor deluded, they think to keep us under control.
Poor deluded, we were there before them, talked to the wind and said to those who know how to listen, and when we'll be silent, our silence will also be theirs.
And when we'll be quiet, we have them all killed.


"The column" rises majestically in the middle of street Veratti, Varese