Driven by the sudden desire to suffer for love, I do not preclude the pleasure of a hazelnut and pistachio ice cream on a decisively crispy and distinctly flavorful cone. I taste it greedily, and that summer when I was cycling with that guy Nicola, who is now the village undertaker, along the Marostican road and the sidewalks going up and down, while the rain poured down in large drops and filled our youth. The smell of rain on the asphalt still reminds me of those moments long gone and never forgotten. And a firecracker that broke a lifelong friendship with Alessio for the long-haired bully, even though not for this bully who today scams the neighborhood as a good village tobacconist, secretly selling some weed and small pills. That firecracker exploded while once again the rain, this time autumnal, caught my umbrella in a hedge, while the upset guy saw his mailbox in pieces. A super mega magnum with a red flame, like the fire my mother lit with alcohol in a saucepan in the smallest of bathrooms, and that warmth reassured my young existence, gently lulled me to shores that seemed distant and today so clearly become present.
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