Streetlights

by Lorenzo Piccoli


Where were we? Ah, yes, we were talking about a topic of the utmost interest: myself.

I am sure that all my friends who read this blog have been troubled by the steady reduction of posts I have published. I know you guys rightly agonize over the desire to read my stuff. And I very much like to write here; perhaps this is the best hobby I ever had – after collecting telephone cards, getting lost with my Vespa, and practicing some extreme ironing every now and then. So the question is: why did I stop?

The reason is simple: I had nothing particularly meaningful to say. Not that I ever had, really, but in the last few months I did not feel like sharing any of my thoughts. Ironically, I stopped writing right in the moment I put my Florentine room on Airbnb under the name ‘The writer’s loft’, in a striking and somehow odd contrast with the other room I had been renting out with Mindo under the label ‘Business flat close to the EU area’. I have not been very active as a writer since then, really. But at least I walked, read, drank, ironed, did all the kind of things other writers do, and now I am back.

The long absence brought its fruits: it wiped out all the readers of this blog. This thing, a thing that used to have dozens, what do I say, hundreds of readers!, this thing is now empty. Now it is just me, ready to expose myself to the ridicule, improvising like a drunk sailor dancing on a pole in a dark street where there is hardly anyone passing by. And so I will, though maybe not quite literally.

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