10.15, Saturday night ...

waiting for the telephone to ring,
and i'm wondering where she's been
and i'm crying for yesterday
and the tap drips
drip drip drip driiiiiiiiiiiiiiips....

I immagine myself in late '70 laying in my infant bed listening The Cure's music from a distant room where my parents were consuming their youth. Wooden cupboard full of ghost toys. Azure walls, cloudy.

Ten years later I am a young man who hates his piano. Granpa just passed away, armchair wet of my daddy's tears. Time to relocate, same old toys and memories packed to move in a new house.

Twenty years later I am tumbling. The Cure music is playing again, ironically, as the funeral march of my youth. Indian stones cover my ears. Polluted.

Thirty years later I am here playing a little game. Through all those small sufferences I preserved. Through all my thoughts, my words, my feelings and my anger. My anxiety and my gentleness. My emptiness and my joy.
All together now, Friday afternoon, waiting for the telephone to ring....