Why Polish Women Have Large Breasts?

of water has passed under the bridge

... Sure, I'd say it's just so much water has passed under the bridge this year ... Watch as we reduced the Tiber ...

However it is not that I did not like writing, is that there is nothing to say, and even if they had a two lines tell the world there would always claim to risucchiarsele, or pf (pour femme), or a text message, or a phrase on msn ... In short, there is always an acronym that absorbs what you have to say.

first talked about the history of water .. well in 2009, the future (that big word) I do not think it will be less water in 2008, but I must admit it was an amazing year.

In recent months, if I had one of those Polaroid snapshots of the 80, including photos of the album we put:

... a close-up of indecision in January and the advice of friends when touched choose whether or not to write, then we would put on an evening at 45giri Carrà, the day of the carnival in the suit, an engineer who designed anti-nuclear shield, a strange and confusing evening at my house, a "Review when you grow up", a night at the computer that changed the course events.
would save into the wild, chicken curry, a fight in San Lorenzo and a sympathetic cabbie, Easter and the chimney of a restaurant, a car trip to Milan, a memorable evening and absurd, and then very beautiful moments and other foul, the second time in milan, a lot of people know, the end of my birthday party when everyone was already gone, the white curtain and the couch of my terrace in Rome, a sleeping bag, water on the steps Venice, the embrace of those who loves me and knows how to listen, the worst that I never imagined to hear the phone, the feeling of touching the bottom.
Then I also remember the confusion of Thessaloniki, the strength not to give up, counting down the icy water and the scorching sun of Sicily, my straw hat, sweat in the summer, the eyes of fools and drunks who invites you to dance the pinch, bare feet on the asphalt of Salento, a familiar face in the crowd, dawn and a sad farewell, my red dress and street artists, a deep look at Porto Selvaggio, the green water, cold and the silence all around. An elderly man who tells me that I remind him of his daughter, a guitar on the beach at night. The last review, the orange wall of a room, the strength to say I'm sorry, the tammorra, another quarrel in Trastevere, and another nice taxi driver, dropped a gift, a greeting at the station ...