He walks through the city slowly, as if the city would only move if he walked too, as if she couldn’t breathe, as if he were the lungs she has. And he speaks like this, embarrassed, afraid to speak, he approaches the others hunched over, in a trembling way that he seems to venerate.
He walks around the city in secret, as if no one saw him and everyone found him, as if he said goodbye and then showed himself to those who are here and there, on a terrace, to those who are strolling, to those who do nothing, to who makes nothing last.
He walks around the city as if he were walking through the corridors of his house, setting the table, changing the channel, putting on his pajamas, reading the newspaper, and there he goes with the cutlery and the remote, the flannel, the paper and he walks away. that life goes on, and isn’t it that life goes on? And it’s not always joy, and it’s not always misfortune. It is the day that he sees and that he has, it is the end of the afternoon, the end of the day, the end of a child of a father and a mother. Who they are, where they go, and he is here, through the streets that are going downhill, because of the smile that, from time to time, smiles.
He walks around the city looking like this, a walker fulfilling a promise of someone who walks endlessly, without any promises, just with the belief in a kind of disease that seems to bring him closer to madness. He walks and, along the paths, becomes who he is, a kind of pilgrim, a boy proclaiming his faith.
He walks around the city looking like a beggar, lotteries, scratch cards, hearing yeses and no’s, much more no’s, and the litanies that he says to accept one and the other, not unhappy, not happy either, thus seeming, by a hair’s breadth, to be people.
He walks around the city looking lost, skinny, looking high and on the ground, knowing the stones where he walks, a man alone in a band with trombones, drums, oboes, all silent at his feet in a closed umbrella, hanging waiting for her. Even without foresight, he walks with it at hand and doesn’t let go of the will he accommodates. He and he, life, and it goes on and on.
