Of course, autumn inspires the poet. It is a sweet season, heralding the bitterness of winter, but, with good weather helping, we are not yet concerned about it. The weather is fine, death is there to diffuse perfumes of appeasement, the air is warm, the light compresses the shadows, skilfully mixing the colors. Everything is in its place, in the order of things. You feel almost eternal.
I was not really focusing my attention on something. It was still raining at the beginning of the evening, i had this little cold that weighs down the bladder, tickles the nose and bugs the throat. In the office, the air conditioning system did not help, unable to decide between spring, winter, maybe even autumn.
I had the privilege and happiness of talking to my parents for the arrival of 2013. I say this with pomp that may seem excessive. It is only the unrestrained observation of the feelings that inhabit me. I am 53 years old, and I am still in front of them lowliness that only seeks to be loved.