Here I am.

The passenger is expected to board.

Here I am.
Traveling.
I don’t know where I will land, or what I expect.

Luckily the trip is short.
time to take a look,
time to refresh dry mouth, and I am already at the destination.

Here I am.
I don’t know where I am
everything seems so familiar and strange at the same time.

In the streets I see again old friends
(or I think they are ..
.. I do not know) ..

everything seems to already seen, and, at the same time not recognizable.

I see The Love.
but he is no longer the shy but energetic cricket
I see him in a sad tree in bloom by the bitter fruits.

I see The Hate.
but he is not the arrogant and lonely miner.
I see him in a weary train without destiny.

Here I am.

I don’t recognize myself in a few moments.
In a few steps I will not remember to be here.

I will not remember who I’m.

That I’m the”Here I am”
that I’ve never said you.

You know it’s Winter before you remember who you are.

You know it.
Because the boats are moored.
Because the windows still separates the domestic interior of the buildings of the air thick and uniform that keeps the city in a coma…
…and rhythmic beat of the heart of the people.

The rhythm of your, heart, already knows that it’s Winter.
Is heating the house .. him .. you.

It’s Sunday.
It’s Winter.

Behind the windows.
Inside your heart.

conversazioni tra un bicchiere vuoto ed un posacenere pieno