Out of all: a few minutes the Italian national team will be out of the world. In the first round, without ever having even won a game. Without even ever having entered into the game. Great metaphor for our times.
I'm not a fan of football, but every four years is taken as the growth of each virus's genetic Italian, and I look at the world championships as though I were a true fan. Only Italy's matches, though. And I thought I had a 'aplomb' a bit more British ... the first two games I've seen with detached interest, this, I lived as a real ordeal. For me, getting to walk back and forth nervously, his eyes fixed on the screen, muttering incomprehensibly without even realizing it, is something out of this world: but that's what has happened recently, and still feel the adrenaline flowing and makes me shake my legs.
The second goal of Slovakia, I turned off the TV.
I could not more ... would not be nice to get a heart attack for a football game. But the bar downstairs, down the road, is an echo of the monitor, even when off, and the indistinct voices that I arrive having completed the commentary as I write. Two to one, and we're out. As someone said, this is done.
Gradually the city noises resume their normal pace, following the suspension of these absurd ninety minutes, the traffic noise saves space on the deafening silence that dominated the streets, but gracefully, almost unnoticed, with a sense of alienation from hangovers, opening his eyes to a dazzling reality, with awe, almost with pain, waking from a dream.
bitter awakening, this afternoon that the light fails to illuminate: auks nightmare is over in the last dream, and there's nothing else to dream.
Perhaps, now, will be the case to think about rebuilding.
