gray sky and a red pickup truck Monday morning
August 9. may have been a lifetime since the last lines of my hypothetical newspaper.
Venice, strange greetings, and now the ocean, in a place that was once called the seat of the king . the same place now bears the name of a saint, whose Pellacchia was brought here by a greek, for reasons I frankly do not know. an old story, anyway. here things are old, but there is no policy or passion in this antiquity. perhaps there is magic, or that its secular equivalent that inspires respect (and sometimes fear) in front of the trees, wind, stone. in the colors of images of people read a neighborhood still tangible, signs a custom rock, enigmatic, impenetrable. in this me me me rediscover the Mediterranean, Latin, and admit that the ocean front at least it sounds mocking. especially for one who has spent his life to miss the sea.
(but the years - every year - digging depths behind the words, and who knows what I meant when I thought the sea)
short: I'm not sure which direction I am traveling, or whether they are worth these days my time. too many things yet to understand and discover. I try to remember how were my first days in Bologna, but I can gather only vague impression, and it does not help.
however nostalgia hits hard, and the great thing is that I do not even know exactly what I miss. (And this is a bit 'sad, actually. How can you be nostalgic for something that already there was no more? Eccazzo.)
anyway. I was given a blog, before you leave. I will try to fix it, like soon, telling anecdotes, comic timing brush, fight acne. when there will be something I'll put the address next door somewhere. for Moreover, you again.
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