The steampunk bowels of an old hospital. House of pain, hopes, nightmares and dreams. Tissue of man and concrete.

Going higher is not enough. Still needs some style, hopefully not borrowed from a dystopic sci-fi take on the seventies.

Swimming away, starting from the underground.

Sun on the bin for the recycling, sun on the bag for the cycling. It's hot and I'm ready.

Words surround me. Thoughts surround me. Stories surround me. I surrender.

Living under the sun. A window at a time.

Buildings need to defend themselves here in Milan. Plants make a great shield against vandals.

Some mornings missing the bus is a little bit like dying.

Where do trams go when they die?

Milan is a strange fruit. Here's a nondescript building, here's a vandalized wall. And here's a water shrine. ἄριστον μὲν ὕδωρ.

You wake up and you see a piece of the world. The same, usually. And it's not special, just yours.

Ten minutes of stillness, past and life. A whole day of quickness, present and - mostly - nothing of worth.

Una finestra sbarrata. Sole là fuori, caldo bagnato. Si riposano meglio gli occhi all'interno, guardando il bruciore sordo della stanchezza.