A restless night at Pintassilgo Street.

So nice to bathe where I used to, so many centuries ago. To hear the incessant sound of birds, hopping from branch to branch, with a tweet that truthfully sounds like "home! home!".

I lift the door a little bit when closing it, just like I did back when this was my room, not an office. I quickly remember all the different ways my different furniture was placed here throughout the years, how I slept beside the door, parallel, then perpendicular and then parallel again, to the hallway. How I was so afraid to keep the door open, how my small sheets held the power to protect me from any kind of threat, hide any kind of secret, fulfill any kind of dream.

As I sit on this computer that isn't mine, on this non-child-friendly glass desk, taller than any bed of mine has ever been, the breeze slides smooth through the window and splashes on my face, like those nights when I'd stay awake playing, just playing, no regrets and no desire for anything, or anyone else. Or maybe just a latent desire for something unidentified, unexisting, something that I made up in my mind and insisted was there, in all of those languid women I loved, and from whom I never managed to steal even one kiss, so afraid to be disappointed.

My bed here is temporary, but somewhere between the front door and the dining table, my deepest inner peace seems to reside.