You are reading this that does not speak to you or about you. Which speaks of the fact that we all sometimes carry the same name without a surname, ancestral orphans, children of tears.

The southern summer departs with honesty, with beauty and lordship, glazes the treetops with its talented light. Everything announces its end, the shorter days, the lower temperature. Yet running at this hour is still like swimming among goldfish. Only we are left. It is better to stay, to go through the winter of our discontent waiting for the next summer.