I'm hanging out, almost curled up on my couch. I hold a threadbare green pillowy. I feel the cold coming from under the marble floor, from above the dry heat and hissing of the coil. The eyes are closed and wait to be able to lose sleep for an hour. I thought now overlap in the head, the problems, the concerns are, but also the book I'm reading, my fantasies, the stories I tell the child that lives looking fragile and capricious its citadel.
slide, sink later under my eyes, and a wall materializes between me and everything that existed before. It 's like an adventurous journey. What time is better spent than that which involves a trip? I do not know what will happen, I guess not even know who I meet, what I might see or hear. Yet that buzz, that emotion is there. He's maybe under a blanket of thick snow, but I feel exquisitely comfortable, as I anticipate the screening of a film made just for me.
The time seems to stop, then accelerate, expand. The colors are vivid spots dancers blending aggregate forms with meanings well known. A superb direction from unregulated, mad demiurge. A lesser god who even know where to lodge. He obviously has enormous resources and creativity to succeed every time to impress the same witnesses and craftsmen who paint his scenes.
And if I make this account is perhaps because the film is already ending and I'm going back, the wall is evaporating. There is a "no" in my head, but this is the life of a single moment before ... knocked on the door! Who can?
Ah no, just a splash of tenants on the upper floor. Funny how life is so return to the natural. Sometimes it's like leaving a pile of mattresses piled. Today it is a shrug of the shoulders. I brush my sweater, I get up. The whole film is already forgotten. It seems that the scripts are best burned and scattered in the air like you do with little thoughts of children in church.
I need heat, to see someone, to be with people. I go out into the snow. The cold takes my ankles and I suffered blows to the face. By the way, the excuse is to get a coffee, the real purpose is to feel part of something, surrounded by strangers, but the heat of the company of others. How valuable is now the smile of a friend? The hand of the lover? Forse non è questo il momento, il mondo sta andando avanti col suo stanco movimento e non si può avere quel che voglio. E allora entro nel bar. Mi conoscono. La scorbutica al bancone mi chiede se prendo il solito caffè. Le sorrido, tutto sommato sarò anche l'ennesima comparsa nella sua giornata, ma ora che mi siedo al caldo posso con calma rientrare nella parte da protagonista che spetta anche a me in questa storiella da poco, che è la vita.
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