Talk:In Your Head/ITA/@comment-35711173-20190924054105

I think the Alt Lang groups require an English translation to be legal. Here is one from Google Translate with a minor grammar cleanup. I don't know Italian, but it's legally a translation. --

How many times have you lied to yourself? How many times have you blamed the wind? At the branches of the trees, at the drafts, which infiltrate and creep in, through the worn and squeaky doors, they catch you and freeze along the skin. And yet you saw it. For a fleeting moment, out of the corner of your eye. He gasps in the dark, where the gaze does not come. She grins, unseen, as you go back oblivious to your chores, caught by the luminous screen. Meanwhile, the song of the crickets becomes faint, dull and silent. A shiver runs down the back of ice; an atypical cold for a summer night, it will be the case to pull the window. You stand up cautiously, with the caution of someone who feels his eyes on you, in the silence of the night, in the shadows of those four narrow and gray walls. The heavy tax requires some effort, reluctantly closing. You turn to the bed.

Dark.

They say there is a border to how much a man can bear.

You can die of indescribable pain, you can die gripped by horror; an inhuman and shapeless horror, fruit of the mephitic miasmas of an abyss of madness, which hides behind us.

We tend to confine the horrors in the depths of the earth, in the remote pits of Tartarus; we delude ourselves that we can relegate it to the borders of the world away from us.

But the horrible penetrates us, fetid eviscerator and sad assailant and blind executioner and madman. Tear, chews, scourge, and shredding; with infinite and deformed teeth from a thousand twisted and slimy mouths. The pain is inhuman, there is no death to save from the torture of the flesh, of the slaughter of the shattered bones creaking under the sick mouths whining like sick dogs; tapered claws sever and dig the live and warm flesh that flakes and corrodes in the marriage of pain and death. A dreaded death that becomes the desire for death, the release from the undying and incessant pain of the mortal remains mangled and bleeding by the fetid and rattling jaws of the amorphous and atrocious horror.

The bed is unmade, unraveling the sheet badly, lying upset in a starless night.

Repeat between you and yourself that your imagination is your downfall, that your shapeless and dark fantasies must remain confined in your head.

On the other hand, it would come to know, if someone all of a sudden were found to be in pieces without a cause, people die for real causes, we must fear the living and not the lies of the intellect.

How many times have you lied to yourself? How many times have you turned your head in the pillow blaming the wind? How many times have you blamed your imagination?

That perfect machine of horrors in your head, so real that they seem real. Royals, in front of the intellect.

One hundred twenty thousand people die of heart failure every year. Others have the misfortune to remain in a coma. In our eyes it seems a quick, natural, understandable death.

However ...