Legs Ache In Bed Only

I felt a little 'Cyrano

Travel hung on the tram one morning like many others.
The player in my pocket, left at the mercy of randomize, steering a middle course between Liga and Battiato looking for the right song to wake people up. Look below to accompany the entrance of "Cyrano."
I look up, Guccini sings.
"Gentlemen raddled" try not to break down and avoid physical contact, "useless singers" and "rampant political" extrude looking out from the posters on the tramway, a priest faces in disgust two young "materialists" (nihilists for the truth) to discuss the indifference of a god who, they say, "there" there are (!?); dwarfs and giants , rickety racks and poets, pimps and mezzecalze; Guccini sings.

I realize, with amused satisfaction that the piece of Guccini an overview of the reality around me. They are the Cyrano of the situation. I want to slam into the face of all the other "actors" for their sins, the arrogance of which you hold the strut in their role. I leave it to rot, for once, the melancholic indifferent conduct that befits the city: I have to give them a lesson in humility.

Then go downstairs. Arriving there, right, like so many that morning.