Since when I was "young," there were those summer nights of lonelyness and reflection upon the self, and the world around us. Those nights when friends are somewhere else, physically, or mentally, somewhere in someway far from us. Those nights when one can walk in the streets of the city, dipped into the yellow-orange lights of the street lamps and. While walking one can see the old people on the balconies, maybe watering the plants, maybe just trying to catch some fresh breeze, after a long sunny day, which had the black streets coming to boil. In these nights there is a double feeling of melancholy and sweetness, intertwined together without apparent reason. These are the nights in which one come to think about the past, which can be remembered as something far and lost forever, but which can also be remembered as something unforgettable, in some way, and therefore as a new starting point. It's a fight between the certainty of the loss, and the uncertainty of the future, or between fear and hope. One thing is sure, the winner is never the same. Those nights sometimes look just sad, lonely, hopeless. They'd be plenty of things to do, but they just go lost, because the spirit is not synced. Some nights are in need of action, and these were the nights were I was use to go to a little town at the border with Florence, to get a pastry at night. Life was easy, but it looked terrible, as always, when one sees himself in the moment. Going to that little town, a 15 minutes ride with my little vespa, looked like a real trip, and could partially fulfill my sudden need for action, for discovery, for feeling alive. Many things now are different, me, my life, my friends, while those nights are, somehow, always the same. Maybe, as old people still catch fresh breeze on the balconies, I should go to get a fresh pastry at night too, as in good old times, which are good, maybe just because they are past, and far away. Away from the present at least, and from its burden of thoughts, anxieties, fears for the future.