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Il calice della salvezza.

Questi momenti splendidi, durano quanto le bolle in cui si trasforma l'acqua mentre la torture to a hundred degrees centigrade. Just off the flame, they cease to exist and it seems that the long minutes waiting in vain have gone lost. While the pot stops subdued to say the words typical of their job, we lose that vague feeling of celebration that gives the kitchen every time you make them free. Such as extreme hunger that comes in mid-day hours when it was devoured by the cold breakfast in the morning alone. For every tasty morsel to be diminishing the effect of chewing Endorf tasty. Everything always ends in the fall of perception. Too quickly or too slowly, more rarely. So the wine. A glass of red from the absolute and fatal collapse of sobriety, one almost has the feeling of holding impudent between forefinger and thumb of his right to happiness.