's all a meteorological-chemical problem and instead I make an existential question. Spending the summer days splashing in the sense of hopeless futility et relativism cosmic anxiety such as "I do not make the bed, no cooking, no need to do anything because we both die," but now, with the resumption of the rhythms of autumn, all is set in motion and also acts as abstruse rearranging a room or make a jam, even in the tragic awareness that my order will be overwhelmed dall'ineluttabile flow of time and the jam will be evacuated within three days, despite all this, these gestures also seem nice.
Even knowing that none of this will give me eternal glory.
...
E 'grave doctor?
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