(...)
In mid-September, the long-awaited rains that would eliminate all outdoor activities not yet seen. Then, under a cu Biotti [1] with wood, in a twisted plot between the countryside and river. What he had jumped on top of the old alder quell'accozzaglia buy shit, Mario did not know. But now, you could not hold back.
She went biking every morning as a gregarious, he stopped in the square for a coffee and listening to the Firmino already loosened the reins, they were going to shop for a couple of sandwiches, a pound of salami and a large piece of gorgonzola; across the countryside like the Tour of Flanders to the place of execution; removed from the bag hatchet, chainsaw, petrol and oil.
Given the perfect solitude and lack of intellectual engagement that gave him that job, there was plenty of time to think about anything else. And to fret if you could think of Anna.
Yeah. Anna.
ten days had passed since the night that was attached to the bell of his house, convinced that it would just look to fix everything. Indeed, for him there was nothing then to be put in place. Why then was pissed off? Dunno, some probably diminished.
But no.
First of all, not even his mother greeted him, blocking the entrance as if the threshold had been presented in a Ostrogothic weapons. When Mario said he was looking for then Anna, Anna is not closing down had answered the door barbarian horde.
First attempt failed.
that in such cases was also the last, because Mario felt consciousness washed with the good intention.
(...)
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