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:: the dinner :: setembro 2001
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I am tired. I lie myself down on the ground and leave the window opened to clean this strange dust that floats in the air for nine days. Suddenly, I think I saw my reflection pass by the corner of the eye, but it was only light variations, the car lights trembling downstairs. From the end of the street, I heard some music, heavy, black. Steps start to creek in the stairs. I hear them with a rhythm like a shade, an anti wait.

"Don Giovanni"

I hope they're not the same two fags that come here to impose their faith the other day. I hope they're not the same old women that come here to impose their faith the other day. I hope that he's not the same seller that came here to impose his faith the other day.

"A cenar teco"

Have I forgotten something? After all, I don't have visitors it's been a long time, but I never loath the idea of the present, the future and the past existing together. Yes, perhaps I have foreseen for today, many years before, a visit. But who could it be? I don't know nobody, never wanted to know nobody. I look outside and I see some neon, but they also don't serve for forecasts.

"M' invitasti"

The house is equal as it was when I closed myself here, in that rainy day when the city nothing said to me. Fried pans hung in the wall, the cat being cat in the seat of the chair, the ground speaking like the Persians. I looked at the window. It was raining.

"E son venuto"

I hear the house's latch opening and I think it's impossible, I have the house keys in the pants pocket, some while ago I felt its bite in the leg. I put the hand in the pocket and I don't found a thing; perhaps, they had never been in my pocket.

The door opens, somebody enters and hangs a coat in the coat hanger,

I get up from the ground