The distortion has become easier to draw the line between two points.
And so the image is in eternal time contract.
The third figure from the left, second from right: Paolo Borsellino . The banner appeared at the head of the parade that moved from the PDL Colli Albani to Piazza San Giovanni at the event wanted by Berlusconi yesterday, the day of the Lord No March 20, 2010. To identify more precisely was Diego Bianchi, the blogosphere (and quell'ormai devastated and barren enclave of public RaiTre) well known as Zoro .
Today on FriendFeed discussed, in light of this movie, if the representation of the magistrate was killed a macabre horrible and infamous sneer or a quasi-hagiographic ideological hat. We are reduced to this. no longer being able to ask a question of linguistic terms. Nobody, in other eras also recent one would have dreamed of moving to another assumption that this question: namely
if this horror is to be regarded as a horrible and gruesome sberfleffo infamous or rather a horrible and gruesome hagiographic infamous hat.
Borsellino was right. Red purse had an agenda. Borsellino said the names of Berlusconi and Dell'Utri before his body was destroyed by an explosion. Borsellino was injured, trampled, murdered a thousand times since then. Massacred by blind adulation of peasants who have used the remains to cover the shame of all claims arbitrarily Social Democrats, but even more by continuing to sneer sense of things in the world brought forth by this unclean caravanserai that governs us, infiltrate us, diminish us, bomb us, keeps us in check, we humiliates, degrades us, depresses us (certainly I do not just mean the "only" PDL, but the utliizzo disgusting and the very existence of infinitesimal terms of empire as a "level playing field", reduced to nihil in political discourse).
They claim the right to use phraseology (if one can speak of a sentence in the presence of ignorance that stand in the way to Hannibal) of words like "freedom " and "people .
And even humble prepositions like "of ", the figure should be bent in an outlet of black blood.
(for now I will stop the horrors with which the title).
I feel distinctly the bones of their etymologies crushing cry. I hear the screams of the insane in the cell-tightness of the lobotomy. I feel the horror of infinitesimal detail, and my endurance is proportional only too afraid to follow the rabbit in the den of complete madness.
We gave these individuals to express the vocabulary of destruction. We have not defended our words. We have not defended our language, and with it the sense, the concept, origin. And now have telivisioni and swords, and garrote radio, newspapers and other papers-. "
"We are one million."
You were even ten, you were the one-and you, because you have more of this so horrible: one you - however I would be disgusted. The story you browse and find the void, the void was obvious that Hannah Arendt in Eichmann, the banal emptiness of those who smile in front of the train to the Gulag, or for the same track that leads to the camps, those who escaped from small cut in the face with the demonic have ancient testimony: "If they are deserved."
If it seems too much of my "paid" for a "simple" photo, is paramount. It is not "this" picture. The photo, the concept, representing the inifinito horror of detail that leads to the universal. It might find one at each corner of your day, in every sound, inflection, pronunciation, word, quote, news.
gloss, so I do not know what can be done. We know how the social paralysis is binding and degrading, such as to prevent almost every practice of "revolt" (the quotes are for the etymology, remember the etymology of what you think). But if there really is something social in these binaries seem cold, then I do not know: spread this post, spread to Gilioli, spread another post, or a scrivetene you, not every one.
Uno che vi ricordi, e ci ricordi al senso, alla cosa, al nome, al concetto.
Che rediga ancora una volta la nostra umanità su materia viva. Qualcosa che non sia solo l'ennesimo epitaffio.
Qualcosa che non sia semplice sberleffo sardonico, in cui lorsignori sono maestri. Qualcosa che ricordi anche al dolore.
Lo vedo nella mia vita:
Tutto ciò che amo ha sempre meno pace, e tutto ciò che odio non smette mai la guerra. Chiedo solo di non rinunciare.
Non rinunciate.
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