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We had some strange talks on sleepless nights, and we were really friends. Now we are travelling on two different routes: me with my ghosts to chase, you with your identity that you will not find.

We will also die, alone as I am now, dying from the bitter cold, inside a too heavy coat, with the smell of fried fish in my nose. Among white girls I can't even look in the eye.

But what am I doing in this icy sea, I who love tropical climates?

Giampaolo Talani, 1998