Tum tum, tum tum, tum tum.
My heart still beats.
Sometimes strong, to make me think that it wants to go out of my thoracic box, at times so plain to seem stopped.
Stretched out on the bed with a closed book supported on the breast, Im listening the rhythm of my heart, whose pulsations make to tremble my breast and the book supported on it.
It is enough regular now, but a few minutes ago it was decidedly fast. And it was because of that book.
My feelings reported perfectly from printed ink on sheets of paper.
So perfect that, while I am rereading them, it seems me to have written them myself.
So deep to leave furrows as the fire on those pages and in my heart.
So real to make me return with the mind to the moment in which I have felt them, and therefore, irremediably, to him.
He, exactly engraved inside me as that so painful feelings.
But considering that moments I realize the time that is passed: 9 months. And I also become me account of another thing
about first 3 months I