I find myself walking through a village in silence.
The hour is late, but not too much. If it was full summer, you'll hear the cicadas screaming and rattling like an old locomotive, a festive soundtrack, a kind of Buena Vista Social Club, and the light still send me tons of heat. Instead
is no longer summer, is not yet autumn, and the light of a street lamp takes precedence over the setting sun, a warm light, discreet as the knuckles of a little girl knocking on the door.
I am overwhelmed with good feelings. This lamp is a kind of madeleine, which reminds me of elementary school, the years of economic boom, the population explosion that forced us to do double shifts in schools, a month in the morning and one afternoon. It was five and a half ago, a year October 60, Piombino, I see myself in ten years with the folder and the blue jacket of an order that I was going to walk home, few people on the street, a mist and a cool yet cold, no longer hot. The street light that illuminates itself and little else, gave shadows on the walls and my shadow, which is shortened and stretched with each new light.
And today, as then, I feel I want this state, that the beautiful summer would be unbearable if you never leave your step with this new dimension. That allows you to dwell on the chiaroscuro, the morbidity of the contours. A little more intimate, curled up, stepped down.
A bell is ringing, seven strokes in all.
not want anything else now, just a good nostalgia.
The hour is late, but not too much. If it was full summer, you'll hear the cicadas screaming and rattling like an old locomotive, a festive soundtrack, a kind of Buena Vista Social Club, and the light still send me tons of heat. Instead
is no longer summer, is not yet autumn, and the light of a street lamp takes precedence over the setting sun, a warm light, discreet as the knuckles of a little girl knocking on the door.
I am overwhelmed with good feelings. This lamp is a kind of madeleine, which reminds me of elementary school, the years of economic boom, the population explosion that forced us to do double shifts in schools, a month in the morning and one afternoon. It was five and a half ago, a year October 60, Piombino, I see myself in ten years with the folder and the blue jacket of an order that I was going to walk home, few people on the street, a mist and a cool yet cold, no longer hot. The street light that illuminates itself and little else, gave shadows on the walls and my shadow, which is shortened and stretched with each new light.
And today, as then, I feel I want this state, that the beautiful summer would be unbearable if you never leave your step with this new dimension. That allows you to dwell on the chiaroscuro, the morbidity of the contours. A little more intimate, curled up, stepped down.
A bell is ringing, seven strokes in all.
not want anything else now, just a good nostalgia.
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