I, Maggi Mario.
I never sleep, not dream. I do not eat and not to evacuate. I do not love, but I can not riprodurmi are identical to many others than me, who have been and will be. We all love, absolutely and unconditionally, not only who created us but the people who told us to follow. We are not angels, angels do not exist. We have always existed. It is said that the breath has set in motion the immobility of anything it was the will of our creator. And two of us have no infinite escorted to the end, to rejoin the next breath of those who wanted it all started. Like a breath. We are dandelions. Dandelion. And as we move Dandelion light between the worlds, driven by the desire of those who have imagined. It is not the only similarity that binds us to the plant. But it is not important. Not now.
The two women are still together, so sad, different in their desperation. In a guilt are mixed with excitement and euphoria of action is imminent and inevitable. In the other desolation, loss and the inability to accept this terrible change in his life, clash with the blind rage towards the man she loved, self-appointed victim on the altar of his addiction.
Monica wonders why go home.
"Back at home without Claudio is not a return but a nightmare from which there is no way to wake up.
"Norma! Shit, and who has thought about Norma ...?"
Norma.
