Milano is hot and summery today. Warm wind is coming in to dry the clothes hanged outside on blue wires, or dropped on the flayed metal frames of the tenders beneath the dark windows. Someone, fanatic, turned on a cooler, and the hot whir swirls out of the white box hooked outside, its familiar noise filling the gaps of silence in the city ferment. A telephone rings repeatedly from one of prostitutes' apartments, and from the other side of the court echoes the dull cracking of an oval carpet wildly shook against the yellowish plaster walls. All around are fainted voices of indoor conversations and televisions, shotguns, fights, laughters, tricks.
The sky is blue, white with remnants of frayed clouds and chemtrails that swiftly are shifting westward. Again I have this strange feeling inside, like something growing. Gatherings of strength to liberate me from the falling country and its souls, maybe? Or the energy to decide about Libi instead of letting her down or giving her hopes? I don't know.
Jawa texts me a triple message about little Piero who's discovering the grass of the lawn at Parco Nord, and learning to roll himself always on the same side. I don't know what to answer, later I can't find the cellphone.
Finally the tram in the avenue rattles by, urging to leave the stop in front of the building where I hide. I sham normalcy down the streets and my shames follows me at a certain distance, looking as if going its own way.