...there are still two weeks left, but, you know.

Libi I'm trying to write you this letter though I'm no good at it. I always worry that what I'm going to write in the letters will haunt me later on for some reason. Not that I have anything special to write you about. Anything you can't imagine by yourself probably.
So I am leaving, as you know (do'h). Of course I'll miss you Libi. I'll miss your eyes so intense and sweet when we hold each other, your arms when we fall asleep together, your cheering voice as you enter the door, noises of you in the kitchen, in the bathroom, out on the yellow terrace talking to the neighbor's cat. I'll miss our clothes scattered all over the apartment, your round breast, the way you give me, I'll miss you at night, when I'm awake and I hear your soft snoring coming from the other room, that always made me warm, our moments of bravery with the sex, our plans for dinner every night, the contorted and lengthy summaries of the movies you saw. I'll miss not seeing our plants flourishing this spring or getting sick. Even that corny french music all in minor key you always want to listen to. I'll miss hearing of your mother's cat, whom you nicknamed with the same nickname you gave me. I'll miss the countless ways you found to make me feel not guilty, of being alive, of being what I was, of not always doing the right thing. I always tried to protect you but if I succeeded at lengths it only was because you needed so little. Manifested so little. See, I know that.
I'll leave and miss the warm love that my leaving triggered from somewhere inside ourselves, even if it was forced out somehow.
You know that I'll be away for three months, although I am not so sure it will be three months, maybe it will be more, or less. I want you to be strong and go on with everything because I'll be back anyway. I wish I was leaving you with someone else like a child or a pet. But our lives are still important to take care of if we part. And if I am not coming back, because I die or something, please know that the days were all true, all true. True like fear, like illness, like lust, like hunger, like all that I postponed waiting to find the courage to give more to you. True when I ran away from you, true when I came back, true when I said I was sorry. Sometimes I wondered whether it was true or not, but what is true? Is it a lie to think that it's true all that we can't rationalize? And if I really die or something keep my relatives away from my stuff if you can, except maybe the pictures, and destroy the blog please. The password is written under the drawer of the green table (...)

On the brink of falling asleep, even if only for a few seconds sat in a segment of sun against the ugly squared pillar in Diaz square, passersby's voices undergo a sort of sublimation in my head, becoming a deeper, neater, very focused thing against a more uniform background. Could be they skidded on a plane slightly aside reality, in axis with my inside, or they just got purified, for few secs before entering the realm of sleep, of the thoughts forever evaluating and judging, the watching that always downsizes and displaces.
It's like they turn, seconds after I close my eyes, more alien and more beautiful at the same time: like from the world of the sleeper, next to its clumsy nightmares, the world of real things would appear. A world of resonant, passing things without anything of the fuzzy confusion alert senses give us either in dreams or reality.

Voices of conversations slide beneath the plastic chair I sit on sprawled, sounding so definitive and objective, like this woman saying "I've been running all day and cell phone was off", it's like her voice is perfectly floating it in the void, for the first time in the world. Then she goes, and her voice fades out, and a man approaches the bubble of my perception, the deep tone of his phrase fading in, so clear, "I knew he was gonna accept that".

Alert. I'm awake. I wasn't sleeping. I open my eyes and run them swiftly to the XVII century books set on their side edges over the stall. They're all there, thank God. I know I should stand up now to look busy and conscious to the folks on the other side of the stall, and I should also stand up to avoid falling asleep like an ass again. I try to recount how many hours I have been staying awake now, I come to the quite impressive result of thirty hours, so I recount again, I decide it's twentyfivehours and I have to last at least four more. I wish I was allowed to sleep here for a while. The sun is warm and pleasurable and keeps my eyes half-closed.

I stand up. I move in the shaded area near the stall, where the air is cold and wind-flapped, the books are all opened at wrong pages. I move around arranging leafs, I look busy. Then I move back behind the stall and start the restless dance of the chilly seller, who pushes his feet against the ground one by one, sways his hips, bobs his head, looks into vacancy. I don't have the prescribed woolcap and the half-gloves, but I enrich the dance by singing in my head, and few words of the song I'm singing slip out and get heard. Someone looks at me. I grab a book and get back to the seat in our moving segment of sun. Fuck you customers who never buy no shit.

(in picture, above: gettin' back home, later, riding the lousy brand new green tram)