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The stuff of dreams not smoke or wind or breath, or even breath, gasp, sigh ... The sorrows and anxieties of the soul dreams are nourished. The things we never said never. The terrorist tried before a searching look that was on the verge to uncover secrets hidden forever. But most of all loves unmentionable, small cowardice, gestures missed, shame, sexual fantasies just suggested by the meetings of the day ...
Imagine all this, but still imagine that you have your eyes open and you are in a pub of any citizen of the March of Ancona. The lights are dimmed, because everything is about to begin. The musicians are ready, but there's an empty place in their midst. Suddenly, the lights , you are well aware that the singer approaches the microphone and shouts: "Marco Serrani the piano!"
not a dream, but the substance of a dream what is happening. Someone has given your name. He said 'piano', "the piano". There is no doubt: Marco Serrani is called the piano.
you try it for a bit ', but a moment, to invoke the gods of the referrals, but you know that you do not listen to another moment, and you find yourself thinking, but there time to think, you just have to say a yes or no . You know as well that 'in situation' is not contemplated no. And we are in a situation when there is no choice, when everything is already decided, as an order of the sky that falls on you to order the action, action ...
These are the moments before the 'eternal moment , that is when you find yourself living an unforgettable and long dreamed of. Now you're in the middle of the dream. It's up to you. Your hands will run to the keyboard, giving voice to the old leaven that stirs in you.
needed words and phrases, to write a story ... Is there anyone of you. Introduce the theme. Yours is the infinite variations. And why should be under sentence of your hands. The current that wanted to exit the heart and hands to reach the game now.
your whole being is vibrating imperceptibly, like the string that emits the sound which will have to pay a sound. Your sound. But you're the rope that now means the enchantment of the evening and the forest of memories that press and Martina and the slight sweat pearls hands and prevents unfolding of a more rested heading.
But in a moment, you stop the sweat, the silence pervades the room just waiting, the long pause before the boot is draining. You can not come back back. You are at the heart of the dream. Occupied a place that is not yours, but for one night only belongs to you. Here you are not shift workers. They just want music to you. Pure music. Sounds outrageous. There are ears that are waiting, but they are not ears, hands concave facing the roar of the water that comes to cool and refresh the thirst. Thirsty, of course. It is to bring cool and then dissolve and win the narrowness of the mind prisoner. Who came not only wants to listen music and singing. It also seeks shelter and relief, compensation and comfort. You have to reach all the crevices of the soul. The items you find them in crevices and put them side by side to facilitate the flight of the mind.
This is the stuff of dreams lived with open eyes, in a summer evening, or maybe not. Summer has just ended. There is already a hint of autumn in the air. Do not you feel the smell of chestnuts per hour or the rustle of dead leaves. Of one and the season will have to talk about music now. She incederà solemn soul, which otherwise did not announce itself. It will be a single pulse in the air. The source of every movement of the soul is you. And 'who look to you all.
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