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Nobody reads the end credits. Too many and too fast. A cascade of names, actors, skills that fall down in the most total indifference. Sleepy, while putting on my pajamas, with mint and fluoride in my mouth, they escort me to bed. Sometimes they find me already passed out on the couch, in that unsatisfying sleep.
Tomorrow there's school.
Liguria is okay. For the carbonari movements and geometry, it's better if I disappear behind Rodolfo; maybe they won't notice me. But tomorrow will be dealt with tomorrow, my eyelids close the horizon, and this little tune puts me at ease.
A little over ten years old, caught in the grip of acne that will ruin all my photos. It's premature for me to appreciate certain things, to slyly wink at a hint of jazz, but it's damn clear to me that those forty seconds are fully entitled to haunt my future with nostalgia.
Behind the scat hides a small great man whom I do not yet know, and snatched into consciousness by an uncontrollable drowsiness, I glide over the terraces wet with February rain, beyond the twilight, when in the evening the kitchens glow with warm light and the table is cleared of pens and notebooks for knives and forks. Sounds of dishes, smell of cooking, the TV on for the prime-time show. A pair of film wings guide me towards a bright horizon on this so gloomy day.
Wrapped in the fog of tomorrow, a swarm of cars queued at Esso. Quick steps and rain-soaked raincoats along the sidewalks, slaloming through puddles towards their destination, today's, the same as yesterday's, flow quickly like end credits.
"They should abolish Mondays," I think, returning to reality, the one that weakly takes me from the couch to the bed. I will be a spokesperson, organize a petition. Sailor's resolutions, tomorrow I will have forgotten as always.
And then, after all, Monday isn't that bad.
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