by Aimone Pitacco
Getting into his house, exhausted after
the fight he had with his friends.
Friends are like the flowers in the garden
of life…
they grow, become beautiful, but one day,
they die, you lose them.
His hand was scratching inside the pockets
of his dark blue jacket to find and reach the keys to open the door; they were
at the very bottom of the pocket that felt as deep as the ocean.
He took them to the door and opened it.
He walked up the stairs to his bedroom.
In the instant he got in, a wave of cold
air touched him gently; the window was opened…His room, his beautiful room was
upside down, everything was destroyed, the lamp, the chair that was in front of
his lite brown desk, the pillows were broken and it’s leaves were still flying
on top of his head and in front of his eyes as if they they were bird an the
room was the sky.
All his work, all his life…everything was
written on those papers…
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