I’ve always dreamt of that peculiar autumn, with red leaves covering the ground, with a weakened sun mumbling the forgotten songs of the rainbow, with awkward, belated lays, with altars of bloody grapes, with the smell of wine yawning gently from the fresh-opened bottles... This is how I see autumn. That’s probably why I’ve never had one. The city destroys every drop of beauty. The warm youth of those splendid summer flowers is quickly covered in dust and, in late September, when that cement kingdom should be buried deep under a thick carpet, made exclusively of leaves, the rain turns the dust into mud and the dream of a perfect autumn into ashes.

After this sacrilege, in an indifferent, sadic attitude, the rain keeps falling till it washes away every hope hidden deep into a wandering heart... So the city becomes fade and cold. The tall glass buildings look impassibly down at the smoky pyres where happiness burns. People walk the streets with roving looks upon their faces - they try to run away, to hide under the protective wing of an illusion. Everything is hopelessly condemned to denial: we need to deny the rain, the cold, the smell of sadness, and the recession of summer... At least we know that winter will soon come and the snow will freeze our senses and we shall no longer be obliged to endure this depressed view - we shall obey and we shall be dominated by the ice-kingdom.

It is autumn. It rains. When I was only a child, I was drifting into classicism: I was convinced that it was raining because I was sad. Now I know that I’m sad because it rains. Just like the water which removes everything in its way, the same do the drops with all the feelings in my soul, till I remain totally empty, alike the town that surrounds me. It is funny how - I might add in a rather grotesque way - all the reverie, the wistfulness can perish in a second, being immediately ingurgitated by a brown study. I am the masterpiece of a cruel, emotionless artist.

The sky tends to become slurred and grey, as the foggy dawn embraces the Earth. The world suspires in a long and profound groan. The wind uselessly sighs through the city... It is as gaunt as the people who live in it.

It is autumn. And that takes all our time...