On days like this I would write an entire book. Despite the neon light, the presence of colleagues in the room and a job that comes close aberrant inexorable as the tide, I try to go back out there on the Ponte Cavour, when, a few hours ago, I was .
finally raining in Rome and I find myself in a calm relaxed atmosphere of my walk in these droplets, the perfect agreement with my inside. "How all this music, I think. On the Cavour bridge the wind always blows, changing direction every second. Strand of hair is pulled up as if by invisible threads, finendomi inevitably face, preventing the view and taking unusual folds. Sometimes the hair makes me feel a stranger to myself, just that it moves the line, even slightly, and perceive a clear change on my skull. As if I had confused the salt and sugar. Now, as I walk under the umbrella, I see my curls volarmi before my eyes and feel my skirt rise up to find their legs red. This morning I wore my favorite color and I feel warm even the thought from under his jacket. The piano music in the ears with syncopated ticking me regularly, before they can discover that the piece I'm listening now for the first time, is called its clock .
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