Mus ica - death cab for cutie - a Lack of color ( listen while you read)
Photography - mc - barcelona - canon 450D t: 1 / 6 f/5.6
The first fog always amazes me. The issues even if you do not know, even if they are several years that you find yourself in front of the nose in the morning when you are not yet awake and walking, or looking out the window at night before bed or in the car while you have pictures of the curves front and you separate it from later, from where you should go. The issues and you still wonder why it is a curtain. Lightweight. Translucent. Clean. Near enough not to let you know how far is what is before you. Mysterious. Stationary, but slowly and you know it moves. In equilibrium. Nature. Odious. Melancholy. Smell of water that will not come soon, because if the cloudy curtain that will certainly not see. Even the sounds are not the same, you get muffled, slow and just distorted.
That curtain, perhaps only those who lived in the Po plain can see through the eyes of the viewer in the theater.
The the first thing that comes to mind passing through the tongue is white and moist ... is a walk, a certain kind of walk. I try in my head and see, between memory and imagination, walking the city in July with a blank look, you and you pretty close, not always on the sidewalk so that machines do not go, to listen to the silence ' each other, to better hear the windows. What windows? Those that remain open in the summer and make you listen to the life that lies beyond, in there and pushing to get out. Look dishes that go away by empty tables, televisions, speakers and trying to cover up the silence that you put between the people, genuine laughter and relax in the summer because there is more ...
The picture speaks of the windows. A Barcelona. The song of the fog. Everywhere.
Two discoveries: views from outside the windows and fog seen from within.
Finished the time. a new day. more night.
good
The first fog always amazes me. The issues even if you do not know, even if they are several years that you find yourself in front of the nose in the morning when you are not yet awake and walking, or looking out the window at night before bed or in the car while you have pictures of the curves front and you separate it from later, from where you should go. The issues and you still wonder why it is a curtain. Lightweight. Translucent. Clean. Near enough not to let you know how far is what is before you. Mysterious. Stationary, but slowly and you know it moves. In equilibrium. Nature. Odious. Melancholy. Smell of water that will not come soon, because if the cloudy curtain that will certainly not see. Even the sounds are not the same, you get muffled, slow and just distorted.
That curtain, perhaps only those who lived in the Po plain can see through the eyes of the viewer in the theater.
The the first thing that comes to mind passing through the tongue is white and moist ... is a walk, a certain kind of walk. I try in my head and see, between memory and imagination, walking the city in July with a blank look, you and you pretty close, not always on the sidewalk so that machines do not go, to listen to the silence ' each other, to better hear the windows. What windows? Those that remain open in the summer and make you listen to the life that lies beyond, in there and pushing to get out. Look dishes that go away by empty tables, televisions, speakers and trying to cover up the silence that you put between the people, genuine laughter and relax in the summer because there is more ...
The picture speaks of the windows. A Barcelona. The song of the fog. Everywhere.
Two discoveries: views from outside the windows and fog seen from within.
Finished the time. a new day. more night.
good
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