December.
Month of emotional balances and concerns. Of old and new worries. Good intentions, sweets, gifts and spicy perfumes. And of cleaning. The time has come, I cannot postpone it, I am piling boxes of “I’ll put it in its place tomorrow” that soon I will be overwhelmed and become a protagonist of “buried in the house”.
December.
Month of emotional balances and concerns. Of old and new worries. Good intentions, sweets, gifts and spicy perfumes. And of cleaning. The time has come, I cannot postpone it, I am piling boxes of “I’ll put it in its place tomorrow” that soon I will be overwhelmed and become a protagonist of “buried in the house”.
With this unattractive perspective, I decided to do a good general cleaning; I was arranging a part of the bookshop – which I think I had left for a decade because I heard the protests of the mites under eviction and the whispers of not well identified objects – when I found this kind of notebook – three-voice diary, dating back to high school days , in which my two companions (which for privacy reasons will call Grazia and Graziella[1])and I wrote our life in turn. All our life. It…
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