It rains hard on Milan, and those without umbrellas or hats are skimming in a hurry walls and doors to the streets, under thin edges of scarcely decorated buildings, series of windows and eaves.
Sometimes two milaneses face each other along the narrow dry path right against a line of condos with shallow windowsills. A girl with an already soaking wet wool hat, and a suit without a coat moving from one office to the other and, in my city, the girl lets the suit pass without a second thought, because nobody can stand against business.

I go across town under my favorite hat, in the rumble of vehicles engines and tire crackling on the concrete and exhausts chugging at the semaphores. Alarm sirens go off all around, and the journey is a trek around puddles dark as the night and deep as the Lugano Lake. When it rains this city goes crazy and desperate, but I look past it and try to remember that I love rain. I only wish I was living in a land where business is not more important than girls' good mood, and windowsills are much larger. To begin with.