just happens when I step to the streets of Blood Donors and peek behind the building, well restored and finished that I resurface those few memories of that place: the fact that the stairs were steep, is the memory of when I went to visit my aunt who had just given birth to my cousin, I was nine, but I still remember the three spots of blood on the couch or chair- what was in the room of my aunt. How many years have passed since the birth of Lorenzo I can not remember, but the image of him into the tiny cart that looked like a transparent bowl not forget. In short, all these figures are linked to birth now buried under a layer of fine debris, patience.
The driving force behind the building does not stop in front of such fantasies, especially in Montevarchi and Valdarno where houses and condos sprouting like mushrooms on the other hand is the price you pay to threaten our countries to their side of villages and peasants send them to their fate in the city.
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