He sat at one of the tables outdoor impatiently imagining the small bundle of warm flaky pastry and almond paste, the kipfler, that he was going to eat in a little while altogether with a cappuccino with foam sprinkled with cocoa. He opened the newspapers, browsed them, looked at some of the titles but the kipfler on the background of Saint Marco square deserted, the salt of the air in the blue sky with small pink clouds overcame all the titles of the newspapers.
"Politics, politicians..." he thought with a finicky thought as if looking at another animal species by the unworthy disgraceful appearance. "Politicians... what do they know of the kipfler?

What philosophers can possibily understand... just two colourful cloths drying in a alley shook by the wind give an idea of the inadequacy, the impotence to clinch, of their doctrines.