It is the hour for the cicadas, your shadow hardens and concentrates to its blackest, dwarf-like. A small Italian sprawled under the sunshade. His tummy and half face glued to the bench. I caught him peeking at me through the legs of the benches, nimbly he let out a trickish smile and turned the other side. I wonder what it is like to be a true traveller, to be freed from the mortal chores and ordinary business, to be able to devote yourself to weather and map, a wise man with nature and solitude, an opportunist and con artist when in need. I am always troubled. Often I travel to get away, but was never away from the triviality and puzzles en route, worries about clean clothes and the perpetual five o'clock shadow, weight of the luggage, people and school, money. One afternoon I arrived Bordeaux and I felt particularly drained. My mouth was scorched and my arms floppy and listless like an old rubber band. I walked into an empty basilica, it was shady and cool, and the light passed through the stained glass and touched the ground secretly. It was just there, unnoticed, yet cryptic with meaning. I pulled a pew and soon fell asleep. I woke up after two hours. My mind was fuzzy but nurtured. The candles small and humble, were still guarding in the shadow. That afternoon I was safe. Now I'm on the hill of San Miniato, overlooking the Arno river and Florence. I feel as if myself estranged and shapeless. It is hot and mesmerizing, the panoramic view in a mirage grey and my mind is fogged and burned. I didn't visit any museum. The crowd and the queue frightened me. There are flocks of pigeons as well as young and beautiful women at the Duomo square. The body of the men well curved, fine sheen on the tanned wrists and Satyr-esque ankles, their silhouettes tall and masculine, molded out of the Roman effigy. I recalled the Vatican noble guard I once saw, still chorister-faced, innocent Narcissus, only this time disciplined, embellished with a sense of vigor and divinity. By the Ponte Vecchio at sunset, Eros-buffed couples so sexually charged and spiritually omnific, against the crimson river and the flaming clouds. I feel small and powerless in front of them. The similar self-doubt and inadequacy I have towards huge corporations, schools, sophisticated and well-received students. Derived from my personality disorder, these are the faceless, menacing specters that loom up in my dreams. ... Got drunk out of a Chardonnay-Sauvignon blend last night, good stuff, forgot the name. Some grotesque farce I performed now I feel wrong and embarrassed. I recall later I peed down the bridge. A wise sketch artist might catch the scene and freeze the moment of me staggering in the wind and wasting away.
