I must give 200 euros to a ficking priest.
Just because he celebrated my father's funeral. I don't think it was worth so much money. Not that someone didn't pass among the pews with the collection plate in the middle of the ceremony.
They did, they did. Probably it wasn't enough.

I hate all that and the fact that you can't do it in another way.
Also if you don't believe in god you must be celebrated in church. In Italy there is no chice for a funeral.

I hate all this. I hate this country. I hate the fact that my father is dead and someone else's is not.
I hate the fact that all day I have to act as nothing happened and as if my life is wonderful and ready to surprise me. I act to myself, I lie to myself.
There are moments when I do not want to live anymore. But then I think about who is left and loves me... my mummy, my paulie, my uncle, some friends.
But what is life worth all this suffering?
I can't stand all this, I simply can't.

I had always feared ghosts.
Now I hope that they aren't someone's mind creation.