Jurnal.

"I sat in bed gazing out the window. Outside was a serenade of rain. Inside, music crawled into the room from a phone. It rang and it rang and it rang. Autumn is here. But I am not."

"I feel cold and widowed of energy. The weather is finally getting to me. Artists are spiritual rheumatics. But where can I run? The streets that know no rain will scorch me like a lens would an ant!"

"Violent storms throw themselves against the city like crazed suicide bombers. The windows shake in fear. The pot plants jump from buildings in horror. The dying embers of summer have been completely put out. Cold wind and rain crawl along the buildings like sadist fingers. I am lost in the void within me. I wanted to chase the sun but I was too slow. Charlotte Cegarra whispers: sleep well. I close my eyes and step blindly out of this world."

"Rain came to wash away the streets of the misery they house. Of nicotine. Of Seringes. Of bums, gypsies and whores. The whole refute of the city simply disappears during the long hours of rain. The flood moved Italy in the north somehow. The houses look british under the imensity of showers. Indifferent and sullen. I can t decide if music is too loud or too low. Outside, an endless march of drops. The buildings loom like disappointed tourists. There will be no fiesta today. Only a dreamless siesta."