Ferma A Guardare

Love is like a sweet natural disaster: at first, it seems you can just stand aside, stay dry, and wait it out. But then suddenly, eyes the color of the midnight sky, footsteps on the stairs, and everything was already drowned. The sounds here are like they're made of doubt and guilt, trembling slightly as if from cold, but they don't let go. Every word smells of wet asphalt near the Navigli and unfinished wine, the kind where talk of "love" sounds almost like a toast, and "the future" like a joke. Between restraint and openness is a thin air where apologies, kisses, and the foolish hope that next time things will be different remain.