I'm smoking another cigarette, and I've already lost the count for today.
It's another wonderful day, not a cloud, temperatures between 10 and 15 degrees, and a sky so deep blue that makes you want to go...
And I think I'm wasting time locked in my job cage, especially when there is little or nothing to do, and time goes slowly while bored on Instagram, Facebook, and so on.
And smoking, of course.
I count the hours to the end of the day, then those until next weekend, trying to find a sense to this day, to this week.
We waste time, we are forced to do so.
I know, but I still can’t understand it, still can’t accept it…
I get a message from Italy: a friend of mine, a former colleague of work, died.
Just over forty years: first an embolism, then pulmonary inflammation, high fever... and that’s it…
Bye Franco. You did not have to leave, you didn't imagined it, you probably didn't even think about it.