Every second, in a particular place, about twelve thousand things happen. While
step in front of a bicycle ugly yellow building, a couple arguing on the fourth floor.
The guy who lives in the attic-fake-loft, still sleeping, fresh ubiracatura.
Two men talk business. One thinks of the wife who confessed to not love him more as a time. The other think about what you eat for lunch.
anyone expecting a parcel. The postman is a few moments in front of me.
Someone else is drinking a hot coffee, warm sleepy. I pedal and I think I write. At the other
side of the road, the bike slows down a little girl and rings the bell rose. The mother is attentive.
One couple, after the peace, is probably making love. The boy yellowish
the loft the night before, was with the couple who now turns over in bed.
The man who wants to eat is perhaps the father of the child happy.
The coffee will be cold before being finished in the next few minutes, I will write again.
