I’ve never turned on the public radio without them being in a sort of strike.
Well, that equals good quality, uninterrupted by ads music.
I am not cancelling their right to strike. That immediate response is the problem. There are even more radical solutions.
All these are written on a bench. On my phone. Excuse me but in 2,000 ft it’s kinda hard to find someone with a pen and paper. Three seconds ago I climbed the snowy wall of Olympus while screaming.
Mountain people are noble. In their toughness.
They also smile.
A way of being equal to that of Anastasis.
They say the same thing about me.
That I smile, that is.
When I was little they used to call me St. Laugh-a-lot.
That external characteristic I can’t control.
Everything is heating up inside.
Up here I have this almost pop feeling of wanting to plunge into the yellow-spring flowers while hundreds and hundreds of red lizards carry my body around.
Gathering all the smells from the earth.
I will be hearing only the discography of Nini Zaha. Here and there some up-tempo cute Italian song.
There is no resurrection without passion. Not the Christian one of pain. But that of lust. Of craziness.