Rest. Rest of an unconscious sleep. But heavy, gently rocked by the fog. It seems to have just fallen asleep. After the intermediate stage between being awake and asleep. A half-sleep of the weary, who he has not sat for a moment after a day-eight hours. The sleep of the righteous, some might say. Who has run up in the morning, an hour in an unspecified but still the same, while there is still dark outside in the winter and every step further away from home is torn over the blue dawn in the streets. Whose ends are working from a small car cursing at each roundabout. Who gets queued patiently in pharmacies at rush hour. churches close their doors and pharmacies compliant. Who goes with the beard because the morning has not had time to shave, to return the clothes ironed at home mom. Visit that is repeated every three to four days. Maybe a new skin to soak the smell of home. And even those who travel fast on wide track. Marathon on your arteries, branches on highways, on the work in progress. a transitory situation in which the weight of sleep lies behind the eyelids, behind the eye itself. The sensation of falling backwards, which gives it feels dizzy. But torture is just one of Morpheus, that does not really mean anything to rock soul any middle-class province. It 's just an impression. But the city is asleep. I lowered the shutters of the shops on my eyes, and yet all is silent. In my usual wander past a series of illuminated windows. The long white shutters are open, the white light that I see inside of the room is almost blinding. Not only divides the fog, killing the dark, but also traumatize my eyes. It 's a private clinic, I see empty for the first time in my life. The dark red bar still has some of the latest analysis on spread. The doors are half open, let the mere whim of the last, with white coat, which has pushed to open palm. Actually, there's someone inside. With a cart containing everything you need, a little lady with features Asian moves between the rooms empty so clear and maybe someone else would fear. Seems to repeat with quiet sadness and a series of moves he learned as a child that recites the alphabet. But there is climbing, there is not even in her determination. A child learning the alphabet of another language, which is not the one who speaks to his mom. Continue its work in any case, I think, after my passing. Exactly how did before I saw her by chance, without her noticing me. I carry only a few steps, the purity of the unreal light reflected away, leaving a cross behind me. Now I can tap the dark again with your fingertips. And in the fog, like a creature of His bill, and his sleep that surrounds the sharp corners of the buildings in this city, another figure appears. It 's still smaller and more humble than the last. Walk very slowly, his back arched. But soon disappears from the floor while taking my field of vision. As another character in this dream. I can not see anything but her back with him on the stone age, and the color of her clothes. Black Black like all black this time, broken only dall'arditezza almost burlesque of the fog. It 's still young. I do not doubt his work was the ' climb the scaffolding to catch the sun and sell it to some drug dealer . For convenience. Exactly the same reason now you're backing up this tired city. I stop, I might need a cigarette. After all, is a bit 'who do not smoke one in peace. Needless to say I do not have with me. How feel inferior because the chimneys were always smoking . But perhaps it is not the only thing I miss now? Apparently he's there, he in the midst of this dream that I lies on slight but palpable. I will redo the asphalt when you come back ... shakes me. There is one thing to do, here and now. E 'to join the city in this deep sleep, at least for a while, at least until the fog will allow me.
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