25th of August, two thousand and sixteen.
The cock crows and the half moon is overhead, the
sun over the horizon in the east.
From the sound of it, there are at least two cooks in
hearing range, alternately calling.
A tiny cup of strong coffee, made with a small italian
machine. The news of the disastrous earthquake yesterday leaves more than just the ground shaken → There is
only bad news from outside these days.
The half moon in the sky is watched by the madness
of the half moon on earth, it wanting a fast solution
and the other wearing, one day having her face
illuminated, another her profile, yet another she is
not to be seen at all. Luna, or whatever that Godess was called.
An Italian voice then sounds from the flat above, the sound
of a telephone, an answer.
The cock keeps on coming, and there is smoke msug
Eight bells, it is eight in the morning.
anither day, in the holiday.
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