First flowers in London, a promise which can't be fulfilled.
(change of field)
Sitting outside the coffee-shop in a day of Spring, you look at those flowers while sharing your thoughts with a friend: dreams and desperation, judgement and forgiveness, memory and empty listlessness.
Stop using pop psychology with me, you say. You're trying to crystallize a kaleidoscope. At this point you realize you're talking
alone.
And you don't know why you deny to yourself what you need, and you don't know why you still illude yourself that it can be again. But it's clear that a generous land breeds ungrateful children.
You speak to her, but you don't know who she is, 'cause she is
no-one and you want just your ghosts. While the springy sun is covered of dark clouds brought by a chilly wind, you know you have touched with hand what people run from.
Why do you tell it to me, you ask. If you think to be worthy why do you worry so much about my judgement?
People believe you wear a mask, when instead you stand completely naked in front of them. That's my flesh, you see? You can wound it, you can make it bleeding. It's the pain that you are not able to inflict to me
Sitting in front of each other inside the coffee-shop, the first girl says: I think he really doesn't care. I tried to hurt him, the second girl says. But he doesn't care at all. I smile. You fear my judgement, I say with a glance at the third girl, her eyes still wide open with offence. I don't care what you think, what you say or what you do. Because anything of all this could change not even one jot in my life.
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