"It was really now a game, the Rock, or will die .. disvolere" TB patients have one chance in three of survive, the riddle of the hat, three whites, two blacks, three blindfolded people each choose a hat, then by observing the hat of others who will be saved to deduce the color of their own. in principle, subject only to blacks who sees two hats. waive the first two, are killed. the last a questo punto ha la certezza che il suo cappello è bianco. infatti se fosse stato nero il secondo avrebbe capito di non poter avere esso stesso un cappello di quel colore, altrimenti il primo avrebbe avuto la certezza di indossare un cappello bianco, e così si sarebbe salvato. è solo grazie alla morte dei primi due che il terzo riesce a salvarsi. e se non l’avete capito fatevi un disegno. e non è un vero e proprio sacrificio, perchè il primi due non possono scegliere. gli attori prendono fiato ad ogni parola. la morte balla con loro, o forse è la vita, o forse è l’amore. il primo livello è il limbo del sanatorio, il secondo livello, la città. travestirsi da vivi per scendere a Palermo, fuggire nelle campagne, fra processions of peasants and saints, and in the red handkerchiefs full of coughing, in the scenes of the film having a child, hidden in his pocket in a hurry, before a look compassionate and concerned about them intercepted. Usually sooner or later in the film ever happened. the truth is that in all these millennia of wars and upheavals there is only one event comparable in importance to the small disaster of my death. one day I will try the exact words. that flow like poetry or music, when the carelessness kills the direct meaning, a train left the rails continues on course, dancing. the staircase unites heaven with hell, blood flows of roots that grow bare branches. waving our x-rays to die then scrutinized up being no pain inside, and having seen the dark evil white. to keep hidden under my pillow as a picture in his wallet taken a cab to the train station of Florence, in the second step you have the most beautiful smile. short hair disgrace, the dancer's dreams, the nights talking alone to guard a toll in the country, including games and invented stories, vomiting on the cars and bits of paper, as this eye of a needle, in which the future enters the past, and I do not care How beautiful to be young, and I do not care to read the documents about your true history, your lies embroidered reprocessed for fun or game invented. I love your hollow cheeks, your balls gone, the hair will have grown back, the death in your mouth and the last cries of life that will go off in your eyes. and then hide in your room without moving from his bed, his clothes and not lie in the closet for more tricks. or flee, to delay the time of separation, ran away in the automaker to tell you my life and my land. Death will, however, in a last burst of fever. and I will be healed. at the whim of God, this game to appease his loneliness, or ours. I will resign from the fortress, heal and come back among the living.
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