a nuisance 
I like the silence. Like time, the silence, overwhelmed by the cacophony of daily life, has become a luxury, our cities have become a constant shouting, a hotbed of decibels
that never stops. And if this were not enough already, we have also put those damn four
corvacci fat like pigs - but how do they fly?! - Who with their funereal 'cra cra cra' infect the time of day when my vital signs akin to zero and need an absolute absence of noise that does nothing but excite my murderous instincts: the awakening. 'Cra cra cra!'. 'Cra cra cra!' 'Cra cra cra!'. Each time, his eyes still closed, double-locked, glued, move my hand in vain search of a gun
to buckshot. A hand grenade. Anything that can serve to eliminate the contents of feathers from a cruel and indifferent world. Hours later, his senses, I am bitterly ashamed of thoughts so abominable. Let's leave the guns at the soldiers, the police and my friends who know me well know when the time allotted for the jokes is over. Better a good slingshot
: moreover, my name is David and I assure you that those are really huge winged turnovers, more than Goliath. Therefore, I remains one place where you can enjoy the silence and rebuild my worn spirit. The dressing room of the gym
. In addition, there is only the cemetery. Because here, in Zurich,
the boudoir is a sacred temple . When you step in, you stand there, motionless, struck by the solemnity of the place. Calm. Quiet. Peace. All
so far away from the atmosphere that reigns in Italy : people yelling, singing, jokes and jokes and speeches that deal with all always on the same subject so dear to the average Italian male. And I'm not talking about football.
In Zurich, however, does not fly
and if a fly flew, would certainly be fined for disturbing the peace. Here, people are dumb. He whispers to the maximum. You hear only the roar of the water of the shower, I remember maybe the Falls of Schaffhausen. I admit that it sometimes can disturb. I look around and search these
bodies in shorts and gym shoes looking for an answer. The question, however, escapes me. When they are shaken by quakes of 'horror
vacant , whistle garrulous, causing violent emotional storms kept at bay only by the proverbial Swiss education. Not that things will change particularly in the dressing room of the pool, to Oerlikon, the most important city, where competitions are held officially, where can meet the national swimmers, where all your dreams can become reality and then, come on, people, phone calls, the first 100 calls free manual on how to become an asshole sniffing Swiss raclette for three days. A
Oerlikon train many racing teams and master . After the torture in water, when you see these hordes of fearless young men coming out with their tongues hanging out, breathing heavily and the typical purple color indicating an imminent explosion, you think, well, now the fun begins. Instead, nothing. Yes, there is a more sustained shouting and runs well laughter, but
the decibel level is still laughable . Anything to do with what happens in Milan, on the rare occasions that I can train with my dear, loyal team. There are no words to describe the sensory hurricane strikes in the area between showers and lockers. I can only say that if any of you at that moment opened the door to peek,
instantly lose confidence in mankind and withdrew to the more remote caves, in an eternal and funereal silence. And so we are back where we started, in this eternal recurrence of which, as Nietzsche would say, I broke the eschatological
. I like the silence. But, do it at least a scream in the fucking dressing room, zombies! Good quiet week at all.
I like the silence. Like time, the silence, overwhelmed by the cacophony of daily life, has become a luxury, our cities have become a constant shouting, a hotbed of decibels that never stops. And if this were not enough already, we have also put those damn four corvacci fat like pigs - but how do they fly?! - Who with their funereal 'cra cra cra' infect the time of day when my vital signs akin to zero and need an absolute absence of noise that does nothing but excite my murderous instincts: the awakening. 'Cra cra cra!'. 'Cra cra cra!' 'Cra cra cra!'. Each time, his eyes still closed, double-locked, glued, move my hand in vain search of a gun to buckshot. A hand grenade. Anything that can serve to eliminate the contents of feathers from a cruel and indifferent world. Hours later, his senses, I am bitterly ashamed of thoughts so abominable. Let's leave the guns at the soldiers, the police and my friends who know me well know when the time allotted for the jokes is over. Better a good slingshot : moreover, my name is David and I assure you that those are really huge winged turnovers, more than Goliath. Therefore, I remains one place where you can enjoy the silence and rebuild my worn spirit. The dressing room of the gym . In addition, there is only the cemetery. Because here, in Zurich, the boudoir is a sacred temple . When you step in, you stand there, motionless, struck by the solemnity of the place. Calm. Quiet. Peace. All so far away from the atmosphere that reigns in Italy : people yelling, singing, jokes and jokes and speeches that deal with all always on the same subject so dear to the average Italian male. And I'm not talking about football. In Zurich, however, does not fly and if a fly flew, would certainly be fined for disturbing the peace. Here, people are dumb. He whispers to the maximum. You hear only the roar of the water of the shower, I remember maybe the Falls of Schaffhausen. I admit that it sometimes can disturb. I look around and search these bodies in shorts and gym shoes looking for an answer. The question, however, escapes me. When they are shaken by quakes of 'horror vacant , whistle garrulous, causing violent emotional storms kept at bay only by the proverbial Swiss education. Not that things will change particularly in the dressing room of the pool, to Oerlikon, the most important city, where competitions are held officially, where can meet the national swimmers, where all your dreams can become reality and then, come on, people, phone calls, the first 100 calls free manual on how to become an asshole sniffing Swiss raclette for three days. A Oerlikon train many racing teams and master . After the torture in water, when you see these hordes of fearless young men coming out with their tongues hanging out, breathing heavily and the typical purple color indicating an imminent explosion, you think, well, now the fun begins. Instead, nothing. Yes, there is a more sustained shouting and runs well laughter, but the decibel level is still laughable . Anything to do with what happens in Milan, on the rare occasions that I can train with my dear, loyal team. There are no words to describe the sensory hurricane strikes in the area between showers and lockers. I can only say that if any of you at that moment opened the door to peek, instantly lose confidence in mankind and withdrew to the more remote caves, in an eternal and funereal silence. And so we are back where we started, in this eternal recurrence of which, as Nietzsche would say, I broke the eschatological . I like the silence. But, do it at least a scream in the fucking dressing room, zombies! Good quiet week at all. 
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