06. In the middle earth
I leave home early in the morning. It’s Easter Eve.
London is still enfolded in its infinite chilly shades of grey.
Sleepy buses collect few workers from the roads, letting the pavements be a temporary reign for some bowed drunks, fragile remains of the previous Friday night.
I love the City at this time of day.
Shutters down, desolated streets and a staid quietness seem ideograms of a language that London is using to make me feel at ease. Reminders of the countryside comforting calm I left behind, in Italy. Signs of a momentary and immobile benevolence before humanity starts to devour time and space, once again.
The 341 bus drops me off at Manor House. From here, the Piccadilly line train slowly drags me to