"Beauty will save the world" (F. Dostoevskji)
's one of those afternoons in July that seem to never end, those in which there is too much light and heat pursued every movement and every thought freezes. An afternoon of fans just breathed hot air and cool ever. 'S one of those days when you simply must surrender because there is no choice; a day when the mattress is a strip of asphalt that burns and my back already fried breaded with sweat and makes me look for something without knowing who knows where.
Sant'Agata de 'Goti is a ceramic doll glabra sat up on those early-dresser with the grain of the wood shine restoration, lying or resting on those elegant quilted silk chairs of those stays Baroque loads velvet and swollen hand-embroidered curtains. A doll by the hair and thin, wheat-colored, carefully combed by gentle hands and subtle piano playing probably.
Sant'Agata is surrounded by a dozen districts that did not resemble at all, but remind her of her tomato sauce burned by the sun, and water chestnuts stolen pulled up from the wells. Sant'Agata is an orphan but has many brothers. I welcome the high road as always, full of young trees and lush accompanying the dark edge of the road like obedient soldiers, and before entry into the vacuum of a few meters ahead, the imposing facade of the country that looks over the fence.
Delving into the place of this center is like climbing the marble staircase of a prestigious university or a public building of ancient and well kept. Sant'Agata leans on a river that does not exist, but they all have learned to fear them and imagine the sound current. The wrought-iron balconies are carved and polished wooden doors of the shops have solid brass hinges and all open to the outside while the pastel plasterwork resume almost always composed of the colors at once. The men are well groomed, have kept the mustache and slicked-shirt collars. They turn and walk away smiling attending the narrow streets of that country whose only crime is to host an inexplicably excessive number of barbers and chemists. The wind does not rise at this time and I miss the road, you enjoy choking the air and to increase the heat. Lemons adorn the squares that break the decumano. The fountains and the stone portals of the churches are collected as the breast a woman no longer too young and has too many thoughts in my head.
E 'an afternoon of those in which one throws and you can not find peace until the concern does not turn into inertia and movement is a spontaneous, impulsive, and as a natural alternative to suffocation. The reason why I came to Sant'Agata de 'Goti I understood it only when I got home.
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