Morning belles were singing “dawn, dawn, dawn” shaking my sole soul though in a pan, nightmare of my extreme unction. 
When I got up, I just got down, reaching under the bed, that bad, to grab the alarmed clock; the bell was not that dreamy belle, and here this was my shattered year.
Handprints on the walls, I blinded across the kitchen, knocking down two eggs absorbedly swallowed.
Reaching for casual clothes I got closed in the closet; riding a cloth horse aback I randomly made my mind and brightly emerged in glorious sunshine, dressed in a yellow-stripped pinky red occasionally violet cyan magenta business suit.
I jumped and bounced in the vague direction of the elevator, which was not, and rocketed down the stairs to the soupy crowded street. After oaring my elbows in the mush, I finally got squashed against the crystal glitter of my office door.
My honorably busy war king day went thru, like a flu, mostly appreciated, hated and tolerated, inevitably, purposefully and inadvertently driven by the infinite flatulences of fate and necessity. When time came to its usual afternoon halt, and everybody’s brain was properly paralyzed, I packed my way towards more palatable paltry, down to the body river, across my adventure-prone bar, uptown to my someday fashionable quarters. Afternoon, evening and night sing their timely song, incubating and inundating with their rhythmic thump and thunder the disciplined humanity.
As every night, I bet my wits on the sticky roulette of my dreams, yelling voicelessly at the molassed run of ball and wheel, fighting with fiery glances against an old record play. Divers legitimately distrust waterless pools, one would say. However, diverse drivers dove in genuinely sweet water but desired they weren’t there. Furthermore, doves dive at will with or without water, no matter how salty. Sad satire would be, were it lacking of likely lickings, lichen-wise on the bottom.
Swimming and flying share this chancy motif, unaffected by not so righteous philosophers, by sailors and by pool cleaners. Waiting may be sweet, more than a sweep job, for rather unemployed dreamy and dormant hardworkers; despite Sunday press advices, one would have better to propel hands and feet towards glory and adventure, accordingly to Saturday night lessons of prof. Harrison F. and full color inserts of corny flakes. Shortly, one could infer that the indulgent inept inject indignity, while the industrious inventors inspire irradiating insights.
Illustrazioni: (in alto) Totem Cittadino | (in basso) City | Giorgio Gobbi