Sometimes the silence behind my thoughts screams, leaving behind a certain smell of bitterness.
I always stand between the miserable reality and the piles of dreams I keep collecting and I forget to wipe the dust collected because of the fucking time that is selling more and more expensive.
I collect with the corners of old napkins the tears that trickle down over the cheeks that I constantly meet in my travels and I torment myself in the nights that do not let me sleep in peace, to turn them into pieces of happiness .
I run more and more slowly on the paths trodden by only my boots on the edge of which I left seeds long ago of smile, to have passers-by reap in the months of April when spring still does not know if it has come or if it has to go .
I look for the people I choose through an extremely rigorous selection, with whom I can write The Miraculous Story of anyone .
I’ll be right back .
I hug you with love, endorphin.
P.S. This one was also for our international friends. 🌏🌎🌍