Sunday morning, wake up in sleep apnea. Coffee, pants, shirt. Ice machine. On the way there is already traffic, with cars and people sleepy thought, that swinging his head like dolls. Clear air for the great cold, and the Via Emilia is more bleak than ever. At least during the week oozing remnants of life: the work of tool-behind the scenes, the anguish of productive gimmick. Now, however, the concrete architecture is just dead. M'infilo in that sort of rarefied tail behind everyone else. Guido on autopilot, not even turn on the radio. I let my head go around chasing thoughts down. I want to get right. I wish there were a hundred yards from the border. A checkpoint and then a foreign language. Bending I bend the steering wheel like I was riding. Check. I arrived. In front of the shopping center is a small herd of people waiting to cross the threshold. It would take the Holy Spirit upon them. Looking into the glass, smoke cigarettes, they say wasted words. Someone rubs his hands and stamp their feet. They are impatient and have faces drawn, because the claim as soon as their day of rest. Santa Sunday.
I, however, work. Within one side. The galleries are still empty. Few committed dragging their feet to the first or the last cup of coffee. Some greeting, timid characters, there is already someone who tells a bolt of his life. They all sides stretched by dark circles, and courage to pretend that there are alternatives.
We could be underground in a mine, changing only the walls and lights, plus there are the decorations and the windows. We could be in hell, or one of its group. After all, every enclosed space open to the public is nothing but a hole. Then there
a bell alarm clock, a piece of music rises in volume, a metallic voice instructed to be ready. Among five minutes open the mall. Out of the herd paws, throwing cigarettes and watching the junction point of the glass. Crowd how they should take the best seats. Someone puts in the bag, credit cards and debit cards like guns. We are ready, come. Even now sold dreams so much per pound.
a bell alarm clock, a piece of music rises in volume, a metallic voice instructed to be ready. Among five minutes open the mall. Out of the herd paws, throwing cigarettes and watching the junction point of the glass. Crowd how they should take the best seats. Someone puts in the bag, credit cards and debit cards like guns. We are ready, come. Even now sold dreams so much per pound.
paradox, hyperbole, contradictions. 
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