WHEN I WAS AN ARTIST

For years, every year, just as punctual as the equinox, a phone call came. That phone call somehow marked the start of summer. That phone call brought creative work to do each time. That phone call sounded like, "Get ready, I'm renovating the place, come up with something." Whenever free to paint what I wanted on those walls, I was given only the LA, perhaps saying to myself: "I had thought of this theme for this year". I have lost count of how many murals I have done over time in that place, where, thinking about it, I somehow grew up. Then the place was given to others in management, the phone calls stopped and the years went by, many, and yet, from time to time, someone still asks me: "Do you remember when you did it like this? It was so beautiful!"
You lean on my shoulder. "Tell me something" you tell me and I begin to tell a story from a long time ago, of a footballer who tore his shirt in a world final to make a hole in which to put the thumb of his dislocated arm in order to continue playing.

You fall asleep again. I begin to glimpse the ceiling thanks to the first rays of the sun.

I leave you there to sleep while I go to make breakfast. Soon Tigrotto will wake up too, so I crumble the Plasmon biscuits for his milk.

It's 6 o'clock.

It will be a beautiful day.

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