Daniele lives in a house in central London made of dirt. Such houses cannot be cleaned, and every attempt to do so is futile and dangerous.
Saturday was a good day to be in London. Wheather was warm, and the city seemed to explode in the celebration of this unexpected summertime. Daniele and I walked, and walked, and talked about life and procedures for happiness.
Refusing to merge with London night life, we celebrated a birthday party at Cafè de Paris; in such a poetic place the host and their invitée evoked ancient poets, and clarified existence by the myth. Daniele could not join the hymns, because of his imperfect use of the language; he adopted contemplation as a mean to enlightment.
Going back home we got trapped in the usual 3am traffic jam at Regent street, which reminded us of materialism and vulgarity.
Sunday Daniele and I said each other good-bye, promised promises that won't hold, and parted. The rest was insignificant as expected.
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Post post: pictures of the poetic birthday party can be found here. Daniele and I are easy recognizable in one of those.
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