Milan, with its magical atmosphere, in rain, fog and suddenly you look down its buildings lit up like torches, which take no account of the night. Like that day in Milan, between the loud whistling of the brakes of subways, buses tossed about in the race, among those huge white buildings, the shade of which I felt insignificant, and for this, finally free.
The clink of keys, locked in a small room, the city lights outside the window, our blatant onlookers, to join us in a dream while alone, holed up under a blanket of white covers, while the rubavamo his love.
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