It seems like yesterday. The escalator goes down, the train arrives, the city that opens before our eyes, the tram, channels, signs that familiar with the way the trees, and finally the door of the house, so strange and yet so friendly. Instead it was yesterday, but one hundred and twenty days ago, and of these there is not one that I would not live again, not one without a moment of satisfaction that will pay the rest of the day, not one that will not let me go to bed at night thinking with joy to the next. But as always, good things come to pass quickly, and so this morning I returned the bike to the store, my collected 35 pounds of luggage, saying goodbye to my roommates, and revised the sequence to the contrary, as a result of direction: the front door that closes the road with the trees, signs, canals, trams, the city that greets me and reminds me to always be there, the train, which goes up the escalator, and the curtain it closes. From tomorrow begins another history, notwithstanding the sadness that I joined, not wait.
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