Beautiful and damned like a whore after a night of revelry. Smudged mascara and visible signs of fatigue and time. Sweet Lolita aging of an indecent innocence.
Naples this morning is bright, immaculately decadent ...
greedy, spewing waves of traffic and people along the road that leads from the central station to the shopping streets. Next to the square of the taxi, including the homeless and romantic toxic abstinence, Mac Donald gives off its odor of rotten democracy, while someone tries to sell me the illusion of a deal.
I get lost in the crowd crossing the station Coach, in the confused din of voices and machines always too high, the colors always too showy. Waste scattered here and there as careless strokes of a painter, bins burned and gutted, pale corpses of civilizations with the entrails of the wind.
It's warm and among the smell, smog and buildings leaning against each other the air does not pass. Garibaldi it is indifferent on its stone pedestal, pretending to look elsewhere.
By trying to avoid crazy drivers and pedestrians rushed. It 's still early and the Rettifilo stretches before me like a baby ugly and dirty, but smiling.
Way floor shops and street vendors, untangling between human and artificial obstacles. A little further on, where the cement gives way to heaven, you can see the color of the sea and the scent of another Naples oldest and most true. Unknown and buried. But no one seems to care.
I follow the mirage of blue Via Marina, leaving behind the Anjou Female. Here, beside the water, there is still some hope.
slide along the body of the most beautiful concubines, like the hand of a greedy lover in search of the last shred of purity to be preserved in spite of everything. But my search is futile because those breasts, that irrimediailmente belly were violated. In the summer heat from which I can not find shelter sin and corruption spread like gangrene.
There is, in these streets, decaying, grotesque atmosphere of celebration. Forced smiles in the tragedy, as jarring notes of a mandolin destroyed. Foreign hands that draw illusory rebirths over the disgust against the backdrop of peeling walls. Idiot on the faces of people ready to believe in magic tricks of yet another charlatan.
I look at the sea, looking for a breath of wind to get me my oxygen begins to fail. But the water closes in on itself like a prison. There is no escape, in this gray hood. Despair and stifled rage, screaming curses at me in silence anything. There is no love, no light.
And if the sun shone on my city? Probably not even me noticing. Not anymore.
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