I write first with pen and paper, not with a pen, but with a pencil, to which I have the habit from time to time of making the point while I think back on some memory of the past that is about to fade from my mind.
I like to paint each “picture” by hand, paying attention to every detail with care and passion.
My computer is by the window.
It is late afternoon, and after having spent the whole day in dialogue with the trees in my garden, dancing to the rhythm of salsa, the breeze, always very strong, has finally died down.
An irrepressible music, immersed in the silence of the people who will soon fall asleep.
At night, the only sounds will be the mewing of cats and the yelping of dogs in the distance.
In front of my gate, the road takes a wide curve and slowly leads to the main road, which in no time at all leads to the centre of the town and from there to the sea, while I watch the hills that stretch inland, where the sun will soon take on the rosy colour of the sunset.
