The very few spontaneous love declarations one gets throughout a lifetime probably represent one’s highest achievements, apart from landing on other planets and discovering a cure for the flu.
Such an achievement has honorably been obtained by Canalia last night, while holding a pair of green slippers, with a dandy fish design printed on the soles upper side.
A magnificent pair of Nazi-blue eyes, having witnessed the display, fell upon the charming ensemble of a ragged Canalia, loose gray shirt, wrinkled pants, dirty green snickers with orange laces and an under-age stupefied smile.
They sounded French, though lacking any trace of diplomacy. Suddenly listening to the same song almost every morning seemed to make sense.
Crucified on a huge bed, eyes shut, as if true light came from within, soaked in peace of mind and certainty, Canalia breathes temporary loneliness, finite and measurable, comfortably, mathematically.