h. 17, si alza un venticello che fa fremere le viti. Il cielo è chiarissimo, lattiginoso.Avrei voglia di chiedere tante cose alla gente di qui, ma poi ti rendi conto che a queste coordinate la vita si attraversa senza troppe parole. Rimangono solo i silenzi, e i sorrisi, e i piatti fumanti di borsh.

-Igort

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