STOPSTART by BEATRICE CANIOLA BEATRICE CANIOLA

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STOPSTART


September 7
Northern Sahel. A semiarid strip south of Sahara, groaning with hunger. Koum he went slowly, bearing the arms stretched out, the little pile of bones of her latest child, life still remains something in it and a heart-throb-arrhythmic and blackened skin under the breast. He knew he would die on the road until you reach the sea, the sand.
Persian Gulf. 4.5 ml barrels of oil spilled into the water. Whole families of birds shed their wings and leave the oil glued to the sky forever.
Lambs Holocaust Europe, taken from their mothers crowded into cages and slaughtered for the sake of religion. Lambs without a childhood, which are green pastures in return serves with zeal, holy beheading.
San Francisco. Tsunami in the Pacific, then waves a blanket covering the heavenly Golden Gate Bridge and the 121 sq km of land.
Terra. The only blue planet. Patriot Act. Nuclear arsenal. Click ... ..

Underground passage.
Violin box remaining open. It only attracts the eyes of passers-by from time to time rush. Maybe that's because indigo carpet lined interior, over which shone the few coins thrown on the fly. He seemed to have depth as an open-mouth black cellar in the middle of the floor. And indigo became when and where, under the dazzling lighthouse of any subway train, flying-in motion. Only then wasted and their depth.
Young but nobody told him anything. Even not shift guard asked him who he is and where it comes from. Dressed with a creamy white shirt, collar, tunic and a pair of shabby trousers, held motionless violin under his chin, and walking over thin strings, bow. He played non-stop, his only score.


September 6
Most confused running in all directions. Some still waiting in line, one molfãind hot dogs and sipping coffee. It had been well 7.30 pm, and the bustle around grown steadily. Successive waves flooded spaced passes for four entries in the passage, including phones and pagers ringing in your ears for.
A trickle of water among foºnetele murmurous forest, constantly went through the turmoil of notes about the score. Young played without stopping.



September 5
- At work, boy! At work! ... More soft singing! ... Or you fiddle remembrance that this gives you food? Some commented on their daily race to stop young metrou.Dar seemed not to hear. Not even the smallest gesture drawing of revulsion. They move only bow on the notes the same score in a relentless repetition, the rhythms constantly dreaming of a new world unseen.


September 4.
- Get some money here ... but you also sing, man, something more in vogue! ... Maybe you will get more ...
- Or maybe you'll even become a star! Who knows ?..., laughed out loud a group of young people passing through.
But the score sounds like. And he remained the same. Only their clothes began to feel increasingly heavy, huge and enclosed her body hidden beneath them.
It would have been able to melt in an instant, his desfãcându as a huge fan blades, a progressive propulsion by heights.
He wanted to merge with the eternal blue fire blue eyes of the entire cosmos, whatever his suns shone between us was not even a piece of his heart, the whole universe as reduced pupil-dark of a single eye.

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