Burning sun of a Southern quay-land has licked the ashy haze on the curly hair tips. The dark skin is glistening with myriads of stars that argue with you, the native of a Northern suburb, with a countless ocean of local flowers, bushes, leaves, fingers, hands, birds, and turns of the air. A severe puncture comes from a boiling accordion – you are ready to dive, sing and make eyes at the surrounding fishermen.
‘The winter is approaching,’ a homeopath would mention when you kicked him out of our dwelling the morning you returned from your mysterious pilgrimage to the district of central boulevards. The gaspers outline their edges that have been blurred by the hundred-year winds, so that an ungenerous, slightly pricked smile à la habitual doña can be brewed out.
A mannequin-like crowd on the seaside reverses the bow of the horizon exactly on the axis where the Earth will seem wider. A guitar bursting more and more entwines with the birdsongs and the movements of an artist lost in a labyrinth of the laconic Medieval boredom, dressed in a tulle tutu and a hood, which do not anymore obey to the draught concealed in the corner of an old street. A flock of monks in thick white clothes sincerely smiles at the young chaps who have not been touched by the pleasures of Platonic amazement yet.
Your body is engulfed in a tiger-coloured tunic that was given to you by an Italian escort the day when amazed whoops on the banks of the Seine were designating her a princess.