#Plutonis

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Thirty-seven

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.1k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir @thiefofthecrowns

I

The black and frozen earth of Italy rolled like a wave beneath a canopy of clouds and plumes of smoke. The book was by his side, looking comically out of place next to a cup of coffee and a cheese brioche. The morning light hovered above it like a fog. Tom was saddened by the prospect of giving it away, but his mission, for now, was over. And this was the price he had to pay for all the evil he had done to get this far.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, on the corridor. Through the hazy window, he thought he saw Mr. Malfoy pass. Softer footsteps followed him. Tom didn’t care.

In his hands was a letter from his employer informing him that once they received the book Tom would be handed in to the Aurors for smuggling. His little muggle girlfriend had already agreed to testify against him in the trial to follow. He didn’t even bother to wonder how this could be accomplished. His blood ran cold with resignation at the inevitability of her betrayal.

The train wailed, metal creaking like the rusty hinges of a mausoleum door as it came to a slow stop in the barren garden of Wool’s Orphanage.

Then Tom opened his eyes.

On the other side of the room, on the desk, in the darkness, the book laughed at him.

II

He had already planned for his journey back to England. His suitcase was packed with all the summer clothes he wasn’t wearing anymore, all the books he hadn’t read, and the little things that had piled up during his stay like the stupid souvenirs from France. The only reason why he stayed, and in fact his only occupation these days, was translating the Delomelanicon. He meant to squeeze it dry of every little piece of knowledge before handing it over to Burke and he wasn’t going to let a few nightmares get in the way.

Every morning he worked with the book, every afternoon, every evening. Several enchanted quills were taking notes by his side and his desk was littered with half-drunk cups of tea.

“Te rogo, qui infernales partes… Oh, this is pointless,” he grumbled. “What is this? Another love spell. These Italians and their priorities…” He flipped the page, careful not to tear it in his anger, and moved on to a different category of enchantments. “Bona pulchra Proserpina, Plutonis uxsor… Hmm. I doubt she would help much these days.”

But the love spells, of which there were many, haunted him, and soon he found his thoughts straying back to her.

Would she be willing to help him translate the book, he wondered, even if they’d had a lover’s spat? It wasn’t just an excuse to see her again, no, no… Her Latin was quite good and there was no risk of her accidentally casting a spell by saying it out loud. All perfectly practical reasons, not sentimental at all… Was she still upset with him, though? They hadn’t spoken in days although some mornings he woke up with the echo of a telephone ringing in his mind only to realise it was just the remnant of a dream. Surely he could charm her to return… Even without a love spell.

Tom stretched his arms above his head after another three hours of writing, his joints cracking in the cold and empty room. He’d forgone lunch and kept himself alert with black tea. The telephone was right beside him, on the little table by the desk. What harm would it do if he used it?

He wouldn’t be afraid of calling her, would he? Tom Marvolo Riddle wasn’t afraid of anything.

Almost as a challenge to himself he picked it up and dialled, and while it rang he thought of what to say to her, ideas swinging between variations of seduction and demands.

He thought for a long time. She never picked up.

Tom frowned, his mind rushing with waves of suspicion and anger and worry in quick succession. Was she ignoring him? She wouldn’t dare. Or maybe she thought it was her mother who was calling… Poor thing. Maybe she was not at home, but then where was she? It was Saturday afternoon, and she never went anywhere without him.

As he stood there, pondering all these possibilities, the doorbell rang. Tom hung up at once. He could hardly believe the rush of joy that bathed his heart at the thought that she had come to see him. Of course, that’s why she didn’t answer. She hadn’t been elsewhere, she was just on his way to him. How sweet of her… His proud smile died when he opened the door only to find two balding middle-aged men on the other side.

“Bongiorno. Signor Riddle?”

“Yes…”

“Er, may we come in?” asked the fatter of the two, holding up the flap of his credentials behind a thin plastic sheet.

Tom stepped to the side and shut the door behind them. “Can I help you?”

The men stepped into his little flat, scanning it casually before stopping right in the centre of his bedroom.

“I hope so. Inspector Bombulo, at your service.”

“I know,” said Tom. “We’ve met.”

“Yes, er, this is Sergeant Domingo. We have a few questions about Baron Agarda.”

“Of course.”

“You work for him still?”

“No,” said Tom as he leaned against the doorway.

The sergeant scrambled a few notes onto his palm-sized notebook with a pencil. Tom looked at him with naked disdain.

“Then what is this?” Bombulo asked, walking over to the desk where the Delomelanicon sat cracked open in a sea of parchment.

“Don’t touch that,” said Tom quickly when he saw the muggle reaching for the book. “Please,” he added through his teeth.

“Your book?”

“My last project for the Baron. I wanted to finish translating it before I left.”

“Aha… And you would give it to who?”

“My colleague.”

“You mean to say, your former colleague…”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Domingo took more notes, dull pen scratching on rough paper.

“Yes, we spoke to her,” said the inspector, strolling around the room, looking at everything without paying much attention. “She did not say much about your employment. She seemed confused a bit.”

Tom’s eyes flashed with anger. Was that why she wasn’t answering? Had they taken her back to their dirty, smelly station filled with cigarette smoke and old prostitutes?

“Yes, well, on that note, I’d really like to —”

“You will return to England?”

“What?”

“Your suitcases. I see they are packed.”

“Am I prevented from leaving Italy?”

The two muggles looked at each other and Sergeant Domingo shrugged.

“No,” said Bombulo. “We are interested more in miss… miss…” He snapped his fingers, having already forgotten her name.

“How long did you work for Baron Agarda?” asked Domingo.

“A few months. Since this summer.”

“And he was a good employer?”

“The best,” Tom answered flatly.

“Some people say he was a little… eccentric?” the inspector said.

“All wealthy men are, it seems to me.”

The inspector chuckled, seeming to sympathise, but then pointedly asked, “You feel he did not deserve his fortune?”

“I did not say that,” shrugged Tom, maintaining a supremely stoic air. “Just that his was a world very different from mine.”

“Why do you think the Baron employed foreigners mostly?”

“Did he? I never thought about it.” In truth, the inspector was right. He and her, even Ambrogio and Berit, all were strangers in their way.

“So you feel you were paid good enough?”

“Enough to cover my expenses.”

The inspector paced around some more, and every step trotted on Tom’s patience.

“There was another employee there, yes? A signor Oso?”

“Yes.”

“And he left?”

“Disappeared,” he said, barely containing a smile. “The Baron was quite distressed by it.”

Tom hadn’t planned on it, but if he could pin the blame for the arson on Ambrogio, he could leave Italy quite happy indeed. It would remove all suspicion from him, and from her as well.

“Your colleague got a promotion after signor Oso disappeared, correct?”

…Or not.

“I suppose so if you wish to call it that. All it was, really, was more work for the same pay. Nobody benefited from Oso’s disappearance. So it was not an enviable —”

“Ah. So she was not happy?”

Tom’s blood froze. He bit his stupid tongue and muttered, “I never asked.”

III

He closed the door after them and spent a moment resting his forehead against it. In his hand was the inspector’s card, which Tom reluctantly accepted. Before they started walking away he could hear through the echoes of the corridor their little talk about whoever they were going to interview next. He recognised the name of one of the Baron’s friends.

There was no way they suspected her… She was harmless! Oso wasn’t an imposing figure but she was nowhere near strong enough to kill and dispose of a man his size. Berit, perhaps, could have, but he doubted the inspector even knew what Berit looked like. What a mess…

Perhaps they suspected both him and her, but if so, would they have been so careless with their questions? It was almost disarmingly stupid of them to ask about the things they spoke about at work and her vacation — which Tom pretended to know nothing about — and whether they were merely colleagues or something more — the cheek!

Tom fed them only lies but it was not enough to put his mind at ease. And echoing deep, like a half-remembered melody, was that recent dream, that nightmare…

He immediately grabbed his coat off the hanger and left.

IV

She wasn’t at home.

She wasn’t at the bookshop.

Tom was feeling an emotion he suspected to be panic at that point, and as he headed back toward the tram with his heart torn straight in two at his options — return to England or… was it even an option to stay? — he thought to try just one more place.

He wasn’t happy with what he found.

There she was, seated at a little table inside Othello’s, her favourite restaurant. It was where they’d had their first so-called ‘date’. And sitting with her was Fred. He was speaking quite enthusiastically and she sat there listening, morose. Tom’s glare just about caused a crack in the window, so intense was his feeling and so loose his grasp of magic in that moment. Something like that hadn’t happened since before he went to Hogwarts. Nothing happened this time, nothing was smashed or burst into flames, but suddenly, without a sign from him, she looked out onto the street and saw him. Her lips parted with a suspended word but her eyes said everything. Tom didn’t wait. He went inside.

“And he told me about a case he had where the client had committed negligent homicide against his children’s nanny —”

“Tom!”

“— and he was acquitted by… Oh, Tom is here?”

“Are you done with your little dinner date? I want to speak to you. Outside.”

She nodded and picked up her coat, leaving behind a half-drunk glass of wine and a plate of cold carbonara.

“Freddy, do you mind?”

“Sure, I mean no, I mean… Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the bill,” he stuttered with a shaky smile.

Tom held the coat up for her as she put it on and the two of them went quietly left. He said nothing until they were out in the street.

“So this is where you were,” he sighed as they kept walking, passing all the people out having fun. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“I don’t trust the telephone anymore, I think they have it tapped.”

“Tapped?”

“Wired. Bugged.”

Tom frowned. What strange terminology was this?

“The Carabinieri are listening in on it.”

“Muggles can do that…?”

“There’s that word again. What on earth’s a muggle?”

“Oh. That’s what we call… you. Non-magical people.”

She stopped mid-step to frown at him. “Mug-gles? That sounds awful, Tom. What an ugly word. It sounds like a —”

“Why are the Carabiniery spying on you?”

She stood in the middle of the Via Corso facing him, hands stuffed in her pockets to keep warm. Her breath caressed his face in little puffs.

“They called me in for questioning again yesterday —”

“At the station?”

“— and they wanted to know about… well…”

“Was it your promotion?”

“No. Well, sort of,” she said. “They asked me about you. If… if you were resentful about being passed up in favour of me.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. They were trying to set them up against each other. The snakes.

“Come on,” he said, wrapping his arm gently around her waist. “I’ll take you home.”

[chbnews]

Hello from Camp Jupiter!!

- Darcy Roden, Praetor legionis XII, Legio XII. Fulminata, Plutonis filius, monstrorum domitor, Senatus populusque Romanus.

Hello!! - Will Solace ☀️

[plutonislunae]

Inaugural

"...let us lock arms to be a voice of a centuries old, withering deity, and sing to a sleeping soul the words of fair death, cut throat love, grief struck music, and witted justice— the themes a god finds his home in."

Greetings, fellowship. What you have just come across is the extracted essence of an oath poured to your acquaintance. The oath of solidarity and camaraderie for those seeking a purpose in this mere life. The society of Plutonis Lunae (PL) seeks to provide with this same purpose, much more so with the bewitching lure of the dead.

And what better a preacher, a conusseior of this art, than the abiding and just ruler of that which lures— the god of dead, Pluto.

Pluto: Celestial and Divine

As would be recalled to you, planet Pluto is named, much like its kin, after a Roman god. A god sidecast into the shadows, shown the way out of Olympus by those ichor-bound to him. A god bereaved of family, shouldering duties without appreciation. Such is the fate of a god, such is the fate of an entity stuck in an orbit.

So, where does Plutonis Lunae come in?

As a society, you may expect to find PL's work to be to pay homage to Pluto—the entities. Said work consists of endeavours of academic nature while giving a fair chance to additions and opinions. Expression is valued at PL and is considered crucial to participation. Your voices are indulged in, your words immersed in.

No religious adherence to Pluto mandatory.

Kindly feel free to resort to your pre established faith. Pluto is the face of the dead. Who could he not resemble? Who could a god not be?

Body: Celestial

The structure of PL's working body comprises five heads: the five moons of Pluto. His five followers. These followers, and more subjects if they desire to join and do not perish in the Styx, besides Charon, are guided by the ferryman to the land of the dead by a ceremony whose practices are best kept under the silk cloth.

How to reach the shores of Styx

To be eligible to be a part of such fellowship, one must be at most a year younger than maturity. Pluto, dear god, has held up his righteousness, his justice at all times*.

Candidates must be versed in the basics of Pluto's mythology and may be tested on the same. Similarly, knowledge of planet Pluto is equally appreciated.

Candidates must entertain a question in their mind: were they this era's Orpheus, and had the greek musician been a writer instead, would they have been able to bring tears to Hades' eyes? While such a question poses a lot of ambiguity and vagueness, it is insisted again that PL is an academic society of written or verbal expression.

Your way with words is what takes you far.

Charon's coin

What more is needed, if you possess just skills and desire to seek the land of your god, is but a coin. This metaphorical coin is what shall be the payment for your journey. As the holder of Charon's mortal position, what indeed do i expect? Not a coin strictly.

Presenting to you, Drachma:

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeYzoFo78FpoqmgLv7kwaTYTAveyjANWO2AtfiK_LesJGPsPg/viewform?usp=sf_link

A small test, which if you pass, would get you certainly enrolled into the fellowship after a brief interview.

We at Plutonis Lunae await your response.

[characterdesignreferences]

Art by Cedric Plutoni

February’s Theme: #FairytaleFight

Presented by CDQ Magazine

Discover the artists of the Character Design Challenge community and the current Theme of the Month in our Facebook Group! And when you repost your design on our Patreon page, you can also win awesome prizes every month and choose the future themes!

RULES | WINNERS | MAGAZINE | BOOKS

[hiro-doodlez]

I SAW THE OC DRAWING THINGY AND CAME HERE AS FAST AS I COULD!!!! 🦉 WITH WHICHEVER OC YOU THINK WOULD HAVE THE COOLEST FAMILIAR

I GAVE THEM A LITTLE OTTER/FERRET!! (Even though they’re a monkey demon LMFAO)

But i need help..

[turangalila]

Jean Hanelle of Cambrai (c.1380 - c.1436) _ O Sapientia (plainchant) _ O Sapientia incarnata / Nos demoramur [I-Tn MS J.II.9 Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, Torino, Italy]

_ O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodiisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem,fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia:veni ad docendum nos

_ O Sapientia incarnata, / mente seraphica contemplata, / voce angelica nunciata, / alvo almifica enutrita, / a patre genita prodiisti, / post patrem florida non fulcisti / una, sed splendida comprobasti / unius merita, cum fuisti / cuntorum entium primus motoret ut celestium fabricator, / sic et humilium contractator, / actorum omnium terminator, / cunta qui nectis modo sublimiea / que fortis iure suavi / semper disponis ordine, primi / velle resolvis atque supremi. / Veni, benigne instrue mentes / fervoris igne redde prudentes / molesque frange usque prementes, / nos tecum iunge diu morantes. //

Nos demoramur, benigne rector, / et prestolamur, que tu, promissor, / spondes, et famur quia transgressor / egit ut remur fieri horror. / Inde, gementes acre timemus / ne deviantes nos pereamus, / cum ignorantes, exerceamus / que cupientes desideramus. / Ergo, lux verax, fuga tenebras / quas nodus tenax usque latebras / limbique portas nobis acerbasdedit et minas ille superbas. / Dum ergo fatum parentis primi / tremimus, casum Plutonis diri, / viam prudentum rogamus pii, / voce silentum ne simus, veni. //

Jean Hanelle – Cypriot Vespers. Maronite and Byzantine Chants, Motets and Plainchant Graindelavoix. Björn Schmelzer (2016, Glossa – GCD P32112)

[tiny-pteranodon]

plutoni-CUM

youre milking that meme so hard lmao

[djsupasmash]

Now here's an idea I've had for an HBO Max (soon to be shortened to MAX) cartoon series: Judy Jetson, the galactastic teen queen of The Jetsons, and her best friends Cassie Lunares, Lizbeth Plutoni, and Ventura "Venty" Mooney are taking the 22nd century by starstorm with their hit variety TV show! Helping the Judy Jetson Band behind the scenes are Judy's boyfriend Bazi (a bisexual humanoid martian whose skin switches colors with every emotion he feels) and the unpopular yet lovable Curly Quasar. You'll love watching the Judy Jetson Band blast into activities such as traveling to different planets and time periods to screw things up, getting into things with their families, giving takes on the latest, and of course, playing the show out with a song. That's Judy on vocals, Venty on guitar, Lizbeth on drums, and Cassie on keyboard.

[lukaszrygalo]

Sekcje, plutony i Oddziały Specjalne na terenie II Rejonu "Celków"

Pierwsza s.s. na terenie II Rejonu powstała w 1941 r. w Ząbkach. Tworzyli ją wyłącznie harcerze przedwojennej Warszawskiej i Mazowieckiej Chorągwi ZHP. Zawiązali oni na przełomie października i listopada 1939 r. konspiracyjną drużynę harcerską w Ząbkach. Weszła ona w skład Tajnej Organizacji Skautowej (TOS), poprzedniczki Szarych Szeregów, na całym terenie przedwojennego województwa…

[acumtv]

Paul Severin, jandarm băcăuan a alergat 150 km la ultramaraton pentru a sprijini copiii cu autism

Paul Severin, jandarm băcăuan a alergat 150 km la ultramaraton pentru a sprijini copiii cu autism Paul Severin, jandarm din Gruparea Mobilă Bacău, a alergat 150 de km pentru copiii cu autism “În perioada 14-15 septembrie 2024, pe plaja din Mamaia, s-a desfășurat ultramaratonul de 24 de ore „Autism 24 H Marea Neagră”. Colegul nostru, plutonier adjutant Severin Paul, aflat la prima participare la…

[xhemilbeharaj]

12 shenjat e horoskopit, ja çfarë ju pret këtë javë

Dashi-Ke mundësi që ta prezantosh sërish veten, Dash! Prapavija e Mërkurit në Luan përfundon gjatë kësaj jave dhe ti mund të ripërcaktosh versionin e ri të vetes. Afërdita do të hyjë në Peshore, për të shenjuar kështu periudhën më romantike të vitit për ty, ndërsa Plutoni në Bricjap të ndihmon të ndryshosh qasjen tënde ndaj qëllimeve që ke vendosur në karrierë. Demi-Gjatë ditës së mërkurë, kur…

[xvyogurcik1]

Ostatnio miałam okazję przeczytać książkę autorstwa Edyty Prusinkowskiej pt.,,Opowiem o tobie gwiazdom". Jest to powieść o Astrid, która zakochała się w niejakim chorym Plutonie. Wraz z jej przyjacielem ,,Jajem,, i nowopoznanym chłopakiem chcą wyjechać na kilka tygodni z miasta. Jednak Plutonowi nie zostało dużo czasu.

Na mnie ta książka nie wywołała dużego wrażenia. W większości to dlatego chciałam ją przeczytać dlatego, bo miała piękną okładkę. Ale jak inni mówią ,, Nie ocenia się książki po okładce". Moim ulubionym gatunkiem książki jest romantyzm. Kocham miłosne książki, jednak na tej się trochę zawiodłam, ponieważ dopiero na końcu książki jest coś związane z miłością. Moim zdaniem Edyta Prusinkowska to dobra autorka. Jest blogerką i zajmuje się modą. Jednak jakoś ta książka mnie nie zachwyciła. Plusem jest czcionka duża i czytelna. Fabuła jest trudna jednak można ją zrozumieć. Ocenka 6/10. Mam nadzieję że pomogłam 💪🫶

[macabr00blog]

dionea muscipula

L’inverno accade piano.

La vecchia sensazione della tua barba rada che graffia. Mi hai raccomandato che esistono delle sfumature del giorno in cui possiamo stare vicini, qualcosa di più, qualcosa di meno. Luoghi di sapori tenui come lo zucchero di canna mescolato al caffè prima sulla mia e poi sulla tua lingua. Le tue guance souvenir, le mie riempite di confetti, abbuffate battesimali di corpi in fesa, bomboniere dai colori tenui. La vecchia e nuova sensazione della tua barba che mi si strofina addosso, ora che è cresciuta, mi accarezza.

Storie di famiglie. I corsi delle vene deviati da qualche piccolo intoppo: deviati da qualche piccola massa: deviati da qualche piccolo insetto. L’ho sentito parlare di dipendenze. Portava una mano al petto, recitava?, pregava?, il suo volto si imbruniva nel tempo, l’ho sentito parlare di amore, recitava?, l’ho sentito parlare di violenza, pregava? Mi ha raccontato che la gente piange spesso ai funerali, Plutoni distratti, lui che si china sul feretro, lei non ha più il volto che aveva quando l’hanno trovata. E’ più bianca, è più lucida, sembra foderata di plastica. Un sacco biodegradabile sul suo cranio, un sacco biodegradabile dove andranno a morire le sue grida, nessuno ha mai urlato così tanto, nessuno ha mai sentito parlare dell’amore. E’ uscito dalla sua bocca, è suo figlio, nessun l’avrebbe mai amata così. Nessuno ha mai sentito parlare di violenza. Tranne quella volta che l’hanno tramortito dopo una festa, tranne quella volta in cui gli è toccata la seconda lavanda gastrica, tranne quella volta che ne ha presa una in più, e una in più, e due tre quattro in più, danni da prescrizione, è più bianco, è più lucido. La malattia non lo colpisce, prega?, la malattia lo benedice, recita?

L’inverno è un incubo che non porta a niente, uno spirito freddo senza scarpe, i suoi passi leggeri sulla ceramica del pavimento del bagno, piante di pelli bagnate dal cloro e dalla rugiada. Mi accorgo che settembre a Bologna è un leggero buffetto sulla spalla, complimento di una prozia che non vedevo da mesi, ma novembre sradica le sue ossa e le lascia scivolare nella marea dell’asfalto alluvionato. Ed era così forte che non ci ho creduto. Il suo corpo da Marte reso martire, guerra dei suoi canini sopra i miei, siamo due cani rabbiosi nel cortile, ci prendiamo a morsi le guance. Il suo corpo da Venere che inghiotte mosche. A lui piace sentire il sapore della carne sulla lingua, quando ancora sa di ferro, gli piace sentire che il mio sangue a contatto con il suo brucia.

E’ un deviato, nessuno lo amerà più così, sacco biodegradabile che è il mio addome, ricordiamo i lutti e i lumi passati, ci schiudiamo come su una stele. Le sue mani rese porpora dalle interiora, pensa che lavorare in una macelleria sia come fare un boia, io mi aggiro con la peste in corpo, non ho paura dei contagi.

Quando mi disse che c’era ancora spazio, che era rimasto come un confine disegnato a penna, immaginai quell’esatto momento del giorno in cui divento pazzo, gli incubi mi si incollano alle palpebre. Non guardarmi, dico, voglio farlo da solo. Ma la realtà è che ho pensato fin troppo alla compassione, alla cura, alle grazie di quest’annata di ostinazioni. Incredibilmente, la primavera mi porta sempre da te.

Scambiamo qualche parola che sa di futuro, ce ne dimentichiamo subito dopo, è una piccola particella in cancrena che ci ottura un’arteria. Lui ha tante cose da finire, lavori incompleti lasciati a prendere polvere, io sono ancora in tempo per imparare a distinguere i confini reali. Mi porto una mano sul petto, il candore della mia giovinezza reso vile dai peli, ora che ho un corpo simile al suo posso non avere vergogna di mangiare davanti a lui, ora che ho un corpo simile al suo posso portarmi una mano al petto, esce dalla mia bocca, è una parola di riguardo verso mio padre.

E ancora, storie di famiglie.

Sono sincero quando dico che vorrei fosse morto, quella sera. La malattia lo colpisce. La malattia lo benedice. Lui non muore mai. La sua testa sa ancora di ferro, gli aghi da cucito si tramutano in spilli, ci cammino sopra come un monaco sacrificale. E’ così difficile fare pace con il siamo insieme in questo, che più mi muta il mento, più gli rassomiglio in modo scabroso.

Io sono nato in mezzo ai drammi di un nido, ho assimilato giusto giusto qualche parola sulla violenza, la mia gola non è ancora abbastanza spaziosa per l’odio, tu cammini troppo veloce anche per me e ti sistemi la sciarpa tartan, mi dici che la primavera ti ha portato qui. E’ come un vento caldo che spera di scuotere. E’ come un’altra parola che fatica a venirci in mente, ce la inerpichiamo tra le lingue per ore, la rendiamo un batuffolo di salive che scivola rotolando lungo le strade. Baciarti dove avrei avuto più vergogna, sbigottito del mio stesso fervore, ho vent’anni e mi si è incollato addosso l’odore dell’idea che torni presto inverno.

Marzo mi porta le tue ossa. Aprile mi porta i tuoi organi. Maggio mi porta la tua voce, che è quella di una volta, che è uguale alla mia. Giugno mi porta la tua anima, la sagoma del tuo vecchio io sudato sulle mie lenzuola. E’ un anno che imparo a dormire con la tua metà del cervello accanto alla mia, tu mi ripeti che c'è ancora spazio per noi, quindi, dov’è?

Se io sono una falena resa sterile dalla luce e tu sei una pianta carnivora lasciata seccare, allora, dov’è? Nel mio e nel tuo modo di morire? O di volerci bene? O di entrambe le cose?

Cos’è quello spazio del giorno in cui divento pazzo se non l’inverno?

[stiriarges]

Doliu la ISU Argeș

Cu regret anunţăm decesul colegului nostru de la Secția de Pompieri Costești, plutonier adjutant șef Continue reading Untitled

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18 elevi bârlădeni au participat la “Cupa 1 Decembrie” la șah, ediția a doua!

ȘAH PENTRU COPII… Clubul de șah “Gheorghe Neștianu”, reprezentat prin Ioan Mocanu ce își desfășoară activitatea la Cercul Militar Bârlad, reprezentat de plutonier major Florin Țăranu, au organizat o competiție sportivă de șah pentru copii, „Cupa 1 Decembrie “. Concursul s-a desfășurat la Cercul Militar, în perioada 05-07 decembrie. Pentru a cîștiga cupa pusă în joc, s-au prezentat 18 copii din…

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rýžování zlata na Otavě

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hlavní stránka metalurgie Železo z Moravy - v okolí Adamova a na Blanensku, metalurgie Plutonie - Blog iDNES.cz

domovská stránka metalurgie barevných (žlutých) kovů Jeden den jízdy koňmo k moři/ bitva o Polsko / Baltští Prusové / bronz a zlato - Blog iDNES.cz