Fha Well Flow Requirements

I go to Vienna from Bratislava airport. I cross a field of huge stones and square between vehicles and circulating tiny little people who try to make your day to day. The post-Soviet urban landscape. Rise housing units as tokens of a rigorous geometry and irrational. The street does not exist, and absent the gathering that usually inspires the city (the streets carved into the body built from Nagoya to Albaicin), individuals are dispersed as particles of a melancholy radiation.

; When crossing a river (the Danube, which accompanied me throughout the trip, although I now is not aware of it) can be seen from afar the city center, small, charming story with an air of having the first eastern cities. If I have time around, it would be nice to have a limited engagement in Bratislava. Behind the old town, you still see the silhouettes of hundreds of apartment blocks, imposing, wrapped up in the hills, painted in bright colors and full of windows that line without the slightest grace.

At current traffic Wednesday morning we left by travelers to the periphery. The people opened the way to a lot of stone cottages looking onto the road. I like looking at signs are written in an unknown tongue. The nature peeks into every crevice. There are no flowers, but there is great vitality. Only cars, poking the nose of his small garage or parked in the land of the gardens is a living sign that these people were behind the Iron Curtain.
Everything else I try to imagine I realize that this is the landscape that happen many novels of Milan Kundera (always in short chapters with an implied reflection, Kundera would have been, without doubt, a great blogger) and I see him as if he had been here. I the stories of the people, everyday, small adventures and great meanings, which as any one has to keep to themselves every day ... or write. I think at work, in coffee, education, love, games, on the eve and in the days after, in the illusions of time and the gentle surf of things in the lyrics, and sex ... I try to imagine how it will be young in this landscape, I try to imagine the lives of these people, or rather, my life had I been one of them.

The field is full spirits that run from side to another. I do not speak of the dead, but this way the spirit runs in front of one when you live in fear. Be levied on the gardens, through woods, jumping streams in them are hidden. At the same time I feel guilty for that kind of nostalgia incomprehensible, it has made the post-Soviet aesthetics a kind of pop culture ... pop that made killing Mayakovsky and now floats in these beautiful fields mixed with spirits such as fog in the morning.

Mayakovsky's image by calling a woman for dinner, and he could not dine with him before suididarse, the image of Pavese doing exactly the same years later and far away from Bohemia, but with the same result, and that little thing Kunderiana that has the story ... are the latest thoughts seperpentean me in the head before I fell asleep, wrapped in the warm uncertainty gives travel found.