It 's a sunny afternoon in Bologna. The arcades keep the timid rigidity of a mild winter and a girl with big calves and flat shoes walking licking an ice cream. Cuts of light across the red roofs of modern and reflect light brown on the facades of the palaces of old.
On days like this and I love to walk the beat of my heel is the rhythm of a heart trained, and with a chime that serves as background music known to my wandering.
before the windows are with me the notes of an accordion, pushed out of the boredom of two slave arms and external speakers at the corner of an elegant barettino Vanoni a blow to the sound of samba singing "life is not look for it, but use your mouth, eyes and heart. "
I feel the wind on my face and let him get under the trenches, which opens on my hips and flutters like sail of a windsurfing ready to go. I walk towards the square with his eyes fixed on Palazzo del Podestà glimpsed majestic down the road. From this point of the city is tilted and curved like an old man sleeping on the sofa after lunch. I live the city like the last time and allows me to see something that belongs only to the last times. It 's almost my amazement the stranger. The look of one who has to start again after a few hours and take photographs in the mind to bring something with them.
On the porch a girl on his wooden desk sells old postcards in black and white pearl necklaces old. He smiles. Through some yellowed image. They are landscapes, portraits of families posing with the dress of the party and faces retouched hailing a fascist past. Children, roses decorated with bows and beaches not too crowded. And bring back the words that are no longer needed.
I think if I had a desk like that I could sell myself to get rid of their old words and unnecessary weight. Words of old friends who never return and that no one sings lullabies. Words of exams and forgotten words to songs you never hear. But above all, words of love. Those of the offer. He'd ordered and I would give exposure lovers kissing in the alley and the guy that three days is writing a letter to the fallen woman. I'd have something for everyone. Words whispered in the ear in a night of passion, words written in rhyme with heart-pounding, invented words, words of desire and fantasies of sentimental words, nicknames and useless promises. If I had a desk like that sell everything. Clean the shelves of memory erasing to the end "my love" and wait for the bloom of the fields.
Girl of the counter looks at me curiously. I buy a postcard of Rome, which shows the love to a woman who signed the cuneiform calligraphy Daniel T. and on the way back the external speakers of the shoot barettino elegant notes of a Vinicio Capossela wondering "What is love." I smile because now I have no words, and as far as I'm concerned can continue to ask ourselves for the night.
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