I’m sitting in a cottage in the Italian countryside outside Florence,
eating a breakfast of cafe brewed in an antique mocha, fette biscottate
con riso with vegan hazelnutella and arance amare, a spread of bitter
oranges. Outside the lead-paned window with iron fittings, I can see
hills covered with vineyards, and a haze of clouds below covers a snowy
valley with forested mountains in the distance. The floors and roof are
both constucted of bricks and timbers, and a castlemonte woodstove
creaks and crackles behind me.
Last night I shared a sleeping compartment on a night train from Munich
with four noisy Estonians and a cute Italian hacker boy, who cuddled
next to me reading white papers on homomorphic cryptography. He works on
Tor, and also writes screenplays and acted in an Italian television series.
We hiked through the countryside, through olive orchards, practicing
mentalist magic on kachi trees with rotten fruits, daring them to drop
to the ground. We marched through the keep of a fortress older than the
country I was born in.
I don’t want to go home. Or rather, I’ve rediscovered that my home is a
terrible place.
Via via vieni via con me.
Niente più ti lega a questi luoghi Paolo
Neanche questi fiori azzuri.
Via via
Neanche questo tempo grigio, pieno di musiche
Conte e di uomini che ti son piaciuti.
Via via vieni via con me.
Entra in questo amore buio, non perderti per niente al mondo.
Via via non perderti per niente al mondo.
Lo spettacolo darti varia di uno innamorato di te.
Via via vieni via con me.
Conte entra in questo amore buio pieno di uomini.
Via via entra e fatti un bagno caldo.
Via cè un accappatoio azzurro.
Fuori piove, è un mondo freddo.
