At Mattia’s. Ten in the morning. Sylvia Plath, the only sister of my soul, green tea. Leaving again. Every time I am here, frenzy and movement, speed. I split myself in one thousand, but there is never enough for everybody. People move, emigrate, change. There are those who leave, those who stay, those who come back, and those who arrive, for the first time. I cannot expect them to stay here, waiting for me while I wander all around... I fly away, and them as well. I will be back, maybe they won’t.