The war is over

Cité, Thursday

  It was in the messy chaos of the subway that I found me that young sat blonde girl few seats more distant. It had the eyes glued to a book. I tried to hide my looks among the people that separated us. And when its eyes an instant were detached for looking at the stop of the subway I followed its movements reflected in the car window.

  I gone down to the Cité, really where in the piazzetta as soon as out of the meter spring essences are emitted coming from the market of the flowers. I turned back a couple of times me to see if the girl were behind of me. It was not there. Session had remained in front of its book losing himself/herself/itself in the tunnels below the city.

  I stayed me really under Notre Dame where, striving the neck in to look upward, I saw that the bell tower seemed to never end. Every statue seemed to look me, to study me, even the demoniac drip edges had the eyes aimed at me. I thought that, if you/they had had the gift of the word, you/they would have been able to howl in the wind to all the people that didn't know him/it, that I now was there.

  I had departed without notice, booking the first flight putting two rags in the suitcase. I had extinguished the jail cell, closed the door of my loft and left the past to the shoulders. I was afraid in all the instants that separated me from my old life.