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Small Things

Strange Sunday, yesterday.
Slim and rare snowflakes that slowly try to stick around, put on a thin veil that then disappears and reappears, or create only glossy whiffles on the grey asphalt.
And so I take the car to wander without direction: the fantasy, the intuition or a song will decide it for me. It does not matter.
Cloudy sky, little traffic, and an indifferent countryside in its meaningless and desolate greyness.
"Coming back to life" by Pink Floyd reminds me the need of a springtime for my soul far different from the vapid winter outside.
I keep driving. A few miles north, the forest opens and gets me ... and everything changes.
Strange currents have brought abundant snowfall, a tiny twisted world that closes hermetically as a hedgehog, to defend itself, erasing what has been until yesterday and that perhaps it will not be tomorrow. Happy Island.
Is it just a moment?
I do not know. I park the car, I get off and walk into the snowy forest.
Absolute silence, and a moment of peace and serenity, in the most complete frost, which goes above all...
Then a hot hand tightens my. The cold no longer matters, the silent silence of apparent death dissolves.
And that happy island lights up

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