The most beautiful fog enfolds Milan this morning, mixed with the deadly steamy unloads of the chimneys over the roofs.

Thousands of hot showers are running in the apartments, countless coffee machines muttering, piles of computers booting, of pigeons cooing, of dogs crapping in the barren isles, the grassed one in the middle of the tram's tracks, aside of walkers and runners complaining for something, or the shop tenants who scrupulously are sweeping their own few meters of sidewalk, the municipal policemen giving tickets around, the bus drivers lazily muttering their answers to the ladies clinging to the driver's booth, and in the houses again, smeared cups are left in the sinks, eyeglasses are wiped and worn, teeth brushed, children commanded, unsatisfied glances are given outside the window, Shit look at the fog now, you can see nothing, But isn't it nice, It will last until noon maybe, No it won't, too bad.

This morning I have a feeling towards this city, but I am not able to tell you how the city herself this morning is restive to be told.