Sunday morning at 6:45 of a cold February on the Ionian coast of Calabria, between dream and reality, jump out of bed feeling 
scream unnecessarily hog scannatto under my house, oh thank you for your existence in the pig does not make me wake immezzo traffic and sirens IPODDIANE this stupid and useless North fortunately I hear about only when I turn on the television. 
So imagine the sausages and pork rinds that are out of your filthy flesh, eyes and mind of the Ripper, which unfortunately I could not shoot, I'm going back to sleep hoping for an alarm clock always so bright and strong for eternity.
So imagine the sausages and pork rinds that are out of your filthy flesh, eyes and mind of the Ripper, which unfortunately I could not shoot, I'm going back to sleep hoping for an alarm clock always so bright and strong for eternity. 
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