… I am just back home…and I already miss it…Bologna.
But every time I go there my memories mix to his voice and, in the old room, I can still see me, stretched out on that bed with the telephone nearby. I love that city, despite I abandoned it, it's always my angle of the world, the shelter from weakness, from the problems and from the monotony of daily life.
And my love grows, when I think about that voice that has filled the old room with its music, the voice of him and the room that waited for him with desire and fear, the room that has never seen him. It seems to me I can still feel that sound and the emotion of my hand, while it slowly grabs the telephone; it seems to me I still hear my voice trembling when his own, reassuring, it softly spreads in my mind.
I have greeted Bologna today, with a pinch of nostalgia. When I lived there, something happened, between me and him, every time I went back home, and now that I live at home, something happens every time I go north.
Tomorrow I will shake the last nostalgia from me and for some time I will be well. Only one month and I'll be there again.
September will be seen.