Dear reader, The soul of a book is in the shadows; in the tones...for this reason I am not going to talk of the eleven tales that compose this book, but I tell you where thoughts and feelings that compose those shadows come from. They born from rain and its scent. Wet ground. From a raven that flies on a green field, from the storm; they come from the long noon shadows, from childish Sunday noon sadness. From a broken clock face. From the "last times", when you don't give weight to someone or something and you don't know there will not be an "another time..." they come from snow that falls ...from the "forever", from Seneca and Terzani, from the present, from the burst of laughter. From the colors, from Porto and its boats full of wine; from biggest treasures -the ones we keep inside- , from the falls, from little things, from the taste of the water and the cold air that freezes lungs in a winter morning.
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