sound the alarm, at 7. His eyes half-closed, piano. What an effort. peeped out from the beam of light that enters from window and leans on the bed. I follow him in the direction opposite to its direction, trying to go with the look outside, beyond the glass, as well as the shutters side by side, beyond the terrace. There is no need, because I hear a ticking which says that light rain and in fact it is too dim to say the sun. Where is the spring. And 'This is my thought of the 7 in the morning, where is the spring. Anyway, my body says no, that can not bear to sit up, the skin still want to feel the sheets on themselves, and stretch your legs to look for the corners still fresh. It 'something I do since I can remember, to look for the points left cold after a full night's sleep under the covers. Even in winter, no matter, the important thing is that there is quell'angolino. I move the clock one hour and sleep. Then the sound again and this time I can not postpone. This time away from me blankets and sheets, I collect stuffed animals scattered at the foot of the bed, the same as when I surround myself every night before closing his eyes. I put on my pajamas, and yes, I know, there you put your pajamas in the evening, but I do many things in reverse. Then a longing, maybe silly, but sweet just to think. I want the lunch time, then when I finished that I went to school. What is really sweet, like nostalgia, can you confirm the taste of coffee, hot but not boiling, if not, the Pavesini make the pap and is no longer good, they must be crisp, at least for a while. Everything in life must be so sweet and crunchy at the same time. Tender but strong, soft but strong. Maybe I should be so.
And 'This is the thought of 8:15 in the morning. How I would like to be.
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