The memory is a way to meet people, I read somewhere. But remember nothing ever happens again. And remember the time he learns to lie.
E 'in the late evening train station. The last train is gone. He knows that I love to travel in the dark, without images, without the postcards sent to memory. He knows that there is time to leave. That the track does not flee. And he knows that I can spend the night in Milan.
lying Reminiscences of the days when I carried the red ribbon on the apron of the school depict gray city, sad. There I was a child. An aunt, a tower block with no lift long marble staircase severe. Bowling alley where an old game that had fought the wars and the boredom of the museums. Fog, smog, confusion and memories in black and white.
After an afternoon spent in a room with three Egyptian manufacturers of dreams to throw down the first twenty steps of a screenplay, I walk in the gentle breeze of a fifth season, which surprises the weather Shakes and unknown areas, like the hand of a timid young lover. Milan is not the gray city of my memories deceivers. Milan streets of colored people who live the wonder of a balmy afternoon. Milan is the love coming out of the closet as a cat wandering in search of food.
I first see them cross the road with my heart excited. Mouth to mouth, are led by four feet and a flickering thought. Other if they are sitting at a coffee shop. Eye to eye, you lose in new words and old palpitations. Two in a corner, driven by an irrepressible passion, give a kiss to travelers who can not quell the raging pulse, while their despite the lower belly is looking clothes, bags and a mother with her child closes his eyes.
Others are rocking on the sofa in stone. He smokes. She looks at him. She stroked the bony face and finds it beautiful. Two other smiling to embrace a goal that will stop that image and bring it to tomorrow. Still others are waiting, hand in hand, someone comes to take them away and hope in the night.
A love that was born in March, under the sign of the fish I think. How Venditti's song, as readers of pescinellarete and how my grandmother, who has seen the love hard work and an hour of tenderness, burned quickly in the bed of a barn, on a sultry afternoon early last century.
The touch of the north wind gives me the chills and stiffens the last layer of my skin.
Lovers I find curious. Cross the threshold of a hotel. They close the door, and disappear through the glass.
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