The door is wide open on a large rectangular room. the top two windows veiled with dust filter through a puff of light falling on furniture covered with sheets, on boxes of books, pots and clothes, worm-eaten on windows, doors and on tablets of wood, sinks and calcified piles of straw-bottomed chairs. Wherever there was stuff piled up threw the eye. A pile of mattresses of wool covered with mold. Select a collection of moth-eaten. Old records. Lamps with lampshades crooked. A wrought-iron headboard. Carpets rolled up in newspapers. A large ceramic bulldog with a broken leg.
A house of the fifties piled up in a cellar.
But first there was a mattress with blankets and a pillow. On a low table arranged in order ten boxes of Simmenthal winds of tuna, three packs of bread, six cans of oil, twelve bottles of Ferrarelle, fruit juices and Coca-Cola, a jar of Nutella, two tubes mayonnaise, biscuits, snacks and two bars of chocolate milk. Resting on a box a small television, game console, three novels by Stephen King and a few 'of Marvel Comics.
I closed the door. That
it was my holiday week.
Niccolo Ammaniti
you and I
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