(...) as you'd know Milano is under a white gray sky and the streets are Christmas lightened up and wet of peeing rains. The angry faces of the citizens know no repose. Clothes are forgotten hanging out of the windowsills. The radio says that an ATM conductor talking on the phone run over and killed in Via Procaccini a woman crossing the street. The woman was young. I wonder whom the conductor was speaking to? Instantly I think: a woman who was pestering him or whom was pestered by him.
It's all about the living, any thing visible on earth, except maybe certain portions of art. The world disgusts and never satiates. The speaker of Radio 3 rants about soundtracks and says 'indemuddforlovv' and must be turned off. I think about death but it doesn't help me to live more intensely because I can't believe it it's all here even though I repeat it every morning. Etcetera.