Day Five. To Breathe.

Day 5_03A house in greenpoint, eight flights of stairs to run up as if they were only one, the same anxiety as the first time here, a few years ago, with the same smell of stale wood and linoleum to each step, increasing by two.

Everything was easy back then, love in my eyes, four daises on a weak table, a Chinese laundress laughing, the mattress lying on a sheep carpet , kisses stolen to beards, days without ever going out, to discuss about the sense of things, to laugh, to make, to mean.

Eight flights of stairs, 16 steps each, each of them extreme joy. Up to the door opening, a kind smile of a beardless hipster , the checked shirt, gramsci on the wall, dust piles on the floor, the sweaters to dry in the house.

No logo to be seen on the arranged shelves, together with Chomsky, Yogananda, Star Wars, the authors of a conspiracy .
The smell of its age in each square centimeter of the air I will have to breathe.