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Trues stories from Italy

I am the cumbersome woman, personified excess, unpleasant in appearance as in the remembrance. Because then the memory transcribes everything and then dares to explain that presence.
And I am the man, who is out of tune in the melody as in the text, that you wish to never have met.
Loved.
Just watched.
I am one of the many who walk beside, in a significant travel fragment.
Fortunately on the last row.
And for a cruel fate a few centimeters to flow to the heart and eyes.
We are images of lives that must necessarily be retouched.

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