Big Brother


Big Brother

Big Brother



Tired days in July. The holidays still far. The instability of time.

The shutters of many shops have been replaced by residential doors. The evictees have profited from the bankruptcy of the shops and now they live in them. A girl shakes off the tablecloth on the sidewalk. A man sips his cup of coffee from the window overlooking the avenue, another reads the newspaper on an armchair in the street.

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Passers-by do not exist, and you do not have to worry about them if you want to stay mentally sane. You despise them with sarcasm and kindly avoid you. They use their thoughts to emphasize your predisposition to discomfort. I had never thought about how much living borderline could be so annoying in the eyes of others. The indecorous ceremonial of a harsh life casts a shadow even on billboards.

You think all this is unfair, but it’s just wrong to show up. And yet, when you think you’ve become used to it, you’ll find that you have bought in instalments a slice of dignity. Dignity. Exactly, that consideration that many people think they contain.

A lady, sitting in the car parked outside her front door, waits for the nail polish to dry. She screams in Neapolitan dialect to her son not to play ball in the middle of the street because it starts to drizzle: – Guaglìò, statte accuort’, schizzechèa! (“Kid, be careful, it starts to dizzle” ndt)

It’s all open, with nothing in the drawers but the fatigue of a breath. It looks like a representation of Down and Dirty, but it is not. The window filters the sound of the TV. Someone is watching the Big Brother. I am bitterly smiling. In front of me, a Big Brother bigger than the one on television, but with no rating.



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