I’ve lived for three weeks like in a washing machine. Or, better, in a roller coaster as the sensation are way funnier. Like when I was at the university, looking for a different place to sleep every night in my own city, looking for partners in crime to spend the afternoons pretending to work, looking for cheap rides. And letting something grow day by day. An epic end. A weekend surrounded by unicorns and soap bubbles. No sleep. Farewell. And that’s my first day back to “normality”. The other side of the world is eight thousand kilometers far away.

Our lives are divided in phases. But we realise we lived another phase only when it’s over. Emptying the room where I’ve lived my recent past is quite a painful thing. Filling boxes with what I’ve been. But it’s also a way to prepare a new blank page to draw. And I hurry to do it.

Other’s mistakes. Walking in the city under the sun. Waiting for. Ice cream and fountains. I’m naked in the bed and I can’t talk.

Finally free. Like that song from Dream Theater. Rearranging pieces of my life. Playing again with ink and gouache colours.

Walking on tiptoe, not sure where is the ground. My room is still a mess. Maybe my head too.

Paris is exploding under the sun. And I’m offering bread, asking just for a smile back. And with a bag of smiles I’ll pay my flight.

It’s already a week. We met to pick cherries that are not ripe yet. Am I?