Detesto la domenica. Detesto la sensazione d’inutilità che regala al tempo, quando fuori è grigio e tutto è silenzioso d’intorno. Quando con Karate Kid in tv pure i pop-corn appassiscono. Quando mi ricorda le domeniche di tanti anni fa, ad annoiarmi a casa di mia nonna che sapeva di naftalina e gomitoli di lana. Quando l’immobililità delle cose è uno schianto lentissimo ed insopportabile.
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