When I read a book, I am surprised by the number of words that I find into it and I dream to make use of them. I take note. When I work, it's impossible. I am limited to my own vocabulary. I can't get out of it, and it is so short that working turns into a riddle -- Jean Cocteau

As always when I'm about to leave without a destination, I am taken by all sorts of paranoid thoughts about my inadequacy, my psychological or physical weakness, my ignorance of the world. I don't speak German, I barely stammer some French, I can't read Cyrillic. My experience of locations, places, hotels, habits, cultures is minimal. I am not fit as I used to be wish I was, although I get thinner by the day because apparently I don't eat enough. I got pathetically attached to my absurd habits lately. My body is not very adapt to movement as it used to be only one year ago, when traveling was more frequent. Now, after one year of blogging and after having declared the independence from the city that surrounds me -- my body doesn't know the basics of rambling around anymore.

However. Sometimes tomorrow I will head for Milan Central Station with the lighter luggage possible and my sneakers, and I'll get on one train among many without any particular reason nor conviction. I think the train should be going south, down the falling peninsula, but instead I think it shall be going north.
Doesn't matter. What really worries me is that I will be without my Zanichelli and Oxford CDs. What will I do when the remains of my self-taught English vocabulary fail to describe what I want them to? I hate that feeling of impotence... Even though someone says it is the best exercise possible if you want to tell a story, you know, that stingy economy of words and all.