Since I do not live in these places for years, although the places of my childhood, my adolescence, my roots, often do not live more like family, I sometimes are completely unknown and is needed by My new scanner from head to foot, with the risk of losing always lurking. The fear of losing myself I'm not exceed 60 miles per hour, to the delight of those who call motorboats with wheels suv with these next-generation headlights pointing in the cockpit and reflections from the mirrors and then the eyes, which are used to you find the coin that had slipped into a dark corner of the dashboard and that finally emerges. Me with my old generation small car (and petrol green) when darkness falls on our roads that erases traces of what remains of the "true white line", tortured and disturbed by other lines of Segnacco temporary leave of a thousand yards in hours, with dim lights which is not provided I can see beyond 50 meters in front of me. It is a tragedy and a deep laceration incurable of my soul I no longer recognize anything about these places, I get lost in Vanzaghello, where I arrived at fifteen with hello passing by the woods that connected to my country. Now the woods have been cut deeply by the highway Milano-Boffalora teeming with cars and a crater opened in the landscape of my adolescence. The round onwards, these malicious gadgets that you play non-stop eating crossings and sidewalks. They began to rise a few meters from my house when I was still living here, on a cross rather harmless, but handed down to posterity as a dangerous crossroads. A round and now has engulfed the hulls of many scooters and bumper cars rushed to the mix since the spare rib of the cycle track. Then the round began to win piece by piece throughout the country. From Castano Primo in Gallarate, in Cuggiono at Magnolia, in Legnano, everywhere is a succession of roundabouts, all alike, that in addition to incoroci have also eaten every detail in place where you are. Dall'estraneità afraid of the landscape, tonight to go to Gallarate I borrowed a GPS from my parents. A tomtom to go to Gallarate. I felt ridiculous when already down the road not to make noise I turned off the radio, if not, confuses me. I followed that voice mail. I did not want to trust, but I had no choice. It was a machine to tell me where to go, while I perform the mechanics of the operation: I was driving. I was completely off my intuition, my memory, my common sense. It was the machine telling me what to do. The round me and grabbed me sucked into their vortex of a hurricane eye of the roads that if you get a chissàdove arrivals. soon as possible to go back, alter the blabbering navigator. Come back I won: I could not bear not even have a chance to reclaim this territory, this passage of waste on roads and brand new black and deserted without giving me a chance to understand. But what are these places? But what am I? I turned off the browser, I rediscovered the fear of a wrong turn but also my understanding that geographical stretch their brains to get to work.
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