raining and I guess Signor Scrinzerfuler with his elbows resting on the baluster cold some anonymous building on the outskirts of Milan.
will be up while counting the needles of water fall from above, while being swept by the first cold wind. Behind him feel that he left the television on low volume, as if to deny the loneliness, as if to contradict his silence.
Then imagine a closeup on the face of Scrinzerfuler, the bushy eyebrows, slightly hooked nose, upper lip narrow, on the lower fleshy and pointed chin. And then zooming in on the eye to frame the gold flakes confused between the green and soft brown of her eyes.
And once zoomed over those straws, within which I seem to see filaments, contrails, dust and darkness.
With the last I find myself contemplating the universe and then from there, as if by magic, a vague solar system.
I know him! It 's our.
And then the Earth, our city, a building of its periphery and a little man leaning against the marble balustrade: Mr. Scrinzerfuler, in all its poetical stralunatezza.
If you have never read "The Book of" by F. Pessoa and I liked this little operation, then do it.
I smile because I know that now you're looking out the window.
0 comments:
Post a Comment