This is where I grew up, Vico III Genovesi a narrow lane in the part of town they call Castello, the castle. Here I played and suffered amidst peeling walls and dark stairwells, with the constant smell of boiled cabbage, before I could escape to afford decent studies and clothing. This was a neighbourhood of poor and noble, and I wasn’t noble. It hurts looking at this slice of sky between washing lines, it is your fault, you forced me to come back, looking for what? A yellow drawing pin on the civic door number 6. A sign that should mean safety (everything ok, green light) but instead you don’t understand that it’s better if I find you, so you can give me copies of the security codes, and then disappear. The semi furnished apartment on the fourth floor is deserted. The old landlady let me in, your room is empty, I go out on the balcony (great views, said the agency, but the balcony is facing a wall) the only thing you left behind is a half-smoked cigar, planted inside a flower pot.