Light is flooding the small town, light issuing from the low sun. It is just before six in the morning, there are one or two people in the streets and alleys.
Find the small car, it is parked between a tiny Italian APE delivery truck and some obscene Mercedes SUV.
Get in, start the tiny diesel engine, drive forward, then back, and then the vehicle has enough space to leave the small parking space.
Just before the tunnel, the classical radio transmitter starts to play Eleanor Rigby, without lyrics, just a flute playing the song. It sounds stupid and unnecessary, even the classical analysis of Paul Mcartney's methods of composition do not make it any better.
Perhaps it is just not well played.
The radio starts to crackle as soon as the headlamps go on in the tunnel. Turn it down.
It is a strenuous journey, the traffic is inconstant and heavy.
And there is no communication, it is just a solitary half hour journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment