During the pandemic, my house became a refuge, an underground shelter, but of myself.
I am a satellite spinning around my home.
My angels as gifts from the Eucharist face me, reap the rest of my innocence that the years have shaped.
My books charge me to be read. Those that have been read are jealous, on the shelf, frowning.
Another me was born.
Doors are not just doors.
Windows are not just windows.
Bed is not just bed.
Voices resound that are lost in the air.
Memories come and go like playful ghosts.
"You are in the best part of your life," said my father, when i was 18.
13 years in the new apartment.
I look at the table with five seats, but two are left over.
Nothing will be as before. But it will be better, I think.
Maturity and patience come as dessert with the age.
I take a fork, knife, spoon. Glass in front, plates in back.
I set up the table as usual.
And yet it feels like a dream.




26/01/2021